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THE  NEWARK 
ANNIVERSARY  POEMS 


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THE  NEWARK 
ANNIVERSARY  POEMS 

Winners  in  the  Poetry   Competition 

HELD   IN    CONNECTION    WITH 
THE   250TH   ANNIVERSARY    CELEBRATION 

OF  THE 

FOUNDING   OF   THE    CITY   OF    NEWARK,    NEW   JERSEY 
MAY   TO    OCTOBER,    1916 

TOGETHER   WITH 

THE   OFFICIAL    NEWARK    CELEBRATION    ODE 

AND   OTHER   ANNIVERSARY    POEMS 

—  GRAVE   AND   GAY 

Introductory  Chapters  and  a  Plan  for  a 

National  Anthology  of  American  Poetry 

By  HENRY  WELLINGTON  WACK 

Editor  of  The  Newarker 

THE  COMMITTEE  OF  ONE  HUNDRED 
FRANKLIN  MURPHY 

Chairman 


NEW  YORK 

LAURENCE  J.  GOMME 
1917 


. 


Copyrighted  by  The  Trustees  of  the 
Committee  of  One  Hundred  1917 


TO 

PRESENT     AND    FUTURE    GENERATIONS 

OF  NEWARK  CITIZENS 

to  their  highest  sense  of  civic  duty; 
their  responsible  social  and  political 
participation    in   the   city's   life;   to 
all  sister  cities  inclined  to  adopt  the 
Newark    Idea   of    a    Fellowship   of 
Cities    throughout   the    nation,    this 
frail   volume   of   patriotic   and   in 
spirational  verse 
is 

HOPEFULLY  DEDICATED 


769772 


"Ye  have  done  well  to  hang  harps  in  the  wind." 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD vii 

THE  JUDGES  OF  THE  NEWARK  POETRY  COMPE 
TITION   xi 

HISTORICAL  AND  LITERARY  AND  PUBLICITY  COM 
MITTEES  .      * xiii 

EARLY  INFLUENCES  IN  NEWARK'S  ORIGIN  .      .  i 

EARLY  PURITAN  POETRY 9 

Civic  CELEBRATIONS  AS  A  COMMUNITY  FORCE  .  15 

THE  NEWARK  CELEBRATION 18 

THE   SUNNY   SIDE  OF   THE   NEWARK   POETRY 
COMPETITION 21 

A  PLEA  AND  A  PLAN  FOR  A  NATIONAL  ANTHOL 
OGY  OF  AMERICAN  POETRY 31 

THE  OFFICIAL  NEWARK  CELEBRATION  ODE — 

LYMAN  WHITNEY  ALLEN 43 

THE  POETRY  OF  THE  NEWARK  PAGEANT  AND 

MASQUE 52 

THE  NEWARK  PRIZE  POEMS 61 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

OTHER  NEWARK  ANNIVERSARY  POEMS — GRAVE 

AND  GAY 109 

APPENDICES: 

I     CONDITIONS   OF  THE   NEWARK   POETRY 

COMPETITION 163 

II     SUGGESTIONS  TO  POETS 168 

III  BIOGRAPHIES  OF  PRIZE  WINNERS    .     .   171 

IV  NAMES  OF  MEMBERS  OF  ALL  COMMIT 

TEES    .  .180 


FOREWORD 

WHEN  the  Newark  Poetry  Compe 
tition  was  announced  in  November, 
1915  (see  Appendix),  the  Committee  con 
templated  the  publication  of  a  volume 
which  should  not  only  include  the  poems 
winning  the  Newark  prizes,  but  a  selection 
of  others  which,  though  ranking  high,  had 
not  come  within  the  limited  number  of 
awards.  In  so  large  a  group  of  competi 
tive  entries  there  were  bound  to  be  many 
poems  of  practically  equal  merit,  the  prizes 
being  necessarily  awarded  to  some  for  vir 
tues  offset  by  the  significant  excellence  in 
others.  Indeed,  there  were  many  such  cases 
in  the  final  consideration  of  the  best  hun 
dred  poems  submitted.  The  Committee 
was,  therefore,  glad  of  the  opportunity  to 
create  a  permanent  Honor  Roll  of  the  New 
ark  Anniversary  Poems  which  seemed 
worthy  of  a  place  thereon. 

This  hope  and  intention  were,  however, 
vii 


FOREWORD 

abandoned  after  the  awards  had  been  an 
nounced  in  December,  1916,  because  of  the 
numerous  objections  made  by  the  authors  of 
some  of  the  best  poems  which,  for  special 
reasons  had  failed  to  win  prizes.  For  in 
stance,  where  poems  of  the  same  style  and 
character  were  practically  of  equal  merit, 
only  that  entry  which  best  served  the  larger 
purpose  of  the  competition  received  an 
award. 

These  objections  were  a  surprise  to  the 
Committee  and,  in  their  final  effect,  may  be 
a  disappointment  to  the  authors  who  were 
willing  to  have  their  unsuccessful,  but  meri 
torious,  poems  included  in  the  volume  of 
our  anniversary  verse.  Nevertheless,  after 
the  withdrawal  of  a  considerable  number 
of  poems  by  some  of  the  best  known  poets  in 
the  country,  and  the  necessity,  therefore,  of 
planning  a  smaller  volume,  bereft  of  many 
desirable  poems  of  distinctive  grace  and 
charm,  the  Committee  was,  by  the  sheer 
force  of  these  and  related  circumstances, 
compelled  to  confine  the  present  work  to  the 
poems  here  presented — a  worthy  lot,  despite 

viii 


FOREWORD 

those  big  and  little  upsettings  which  civic 
celebrations,  involving  four  thousand  four 
hundred  and  fifty  actors  and  nine  hundred 
fecund  poets,  have  a  way  of  imposing  upon 
anxious  committees  and  their  ardent  execu 
tives. 

The  beautiful  celebration  ode  by  Dr.  Ly- 
man  Whitney  Allen,  author  of  "Lincoln's 
Pew,"  "The  House  of  Mary/'  "Shake 
speare,"  "The  New  America,"  "Our  Sister 
of  Letters,"  "A  Parable  of  the  Rose," 
"Abraham  Lincoln"  (the  New  York  Herald 
$  1,000  prize  poem),  "The  Triumph  of 
Love,"  etc.,  was  written  upon  the  official  re 
quest  of  the  Committee  of  One  Hundred, 
and  is,  withal,  an  important  contribution  to 
the  patriotic  literature  of  the  nation.  It 
was  first  read  by  the  author  at  the  Dedica 
tion  Exercises  held  at  Proctor's  Palace 
Theatre,  Newark,  on  May  i,  1916,  upon  the 
formal  opening  of  Newark's  impressive 
celebration,  before  a  distinguished  audience 
composed  of  the  official,  literary,  and  social 
life  of  New  Jersey,  New  York  and  Con 
necticut.  Two  hundred  members  of  the 

ix 


FOREWORD 

Historical  Societies  of  the  country  attended 
as  delegates,  together  with  a  large  delega 
tion  from  the  Authors  Club  of  New  York 
and  the  scientific,  religious  and  civic  bodies 
of  the  East. 

The  other  poems  included  in  the  volume 
are  those  which  appeared  from  month  to 
month  in  The  Neivarker,  the  Committee's 
official  journal,  published  from  November, 
1915,  to  November,  1916,  as  a  record  of  an 
niversary  events. 

Finally,  there  are  the  poems  of  Newark's 
Historic  Pageant  and  Masque,  the  author  of 
which  is  Mr.  Thomas  Wood  Stevens  of  the 
Carnegie  Institute  of  Technology,  Pitts 
burgh. 

It  will  be  the  hope  of  the  Committee  that 
the  publication,  in  this  compact  form,  of  the 
Newark  Anniversary  Poems,  may  be  in 
spirational,  not  only  to  Newark  citizens,  but 
to  sister  cities  in  their  aims  at  civic  better 
ment  and  that  greater  ideal  which  the  writer 
has  elsewhere  referred  to  as  The  Fellowship 
of  Cities. 

NEWARK,  March  15,  1917. 

X 


THE  JUDGES  OF  THE  NEWARK 
POETRY  COMPETITION 

THE  following  accepted  the  Commit 
tee's  invitation  to  serve  as  judges  in 
this  competition: 

From  Newark:  Hon.  Frederic  Adams, 
Judge  of  the  Circuit  Court,  State  of  New 
Jersey;  Hon.  Thos.  L.  Raymond,  Counsel- 
lor-at-Law,  and  Mayor  of  Newark;  Miss 
Margaret  Coult,  Head  of  English  Depart 
ment,  Barringer  High  School;  William  S. 
Hunt,  Associate  Editor,  Newark  Sunday 
Call. 

At  large:  Professor  John  C.  Van  Dyke, 
Professor  History  of  Art,  Rutgers  College; 
Lecturer  Columbia,  Harvard,  Princeton; 
Author;  Editor:  "College  Histories  of 
Art";  "History  of  American  Art"; — New 
Brunswick,  New  Jersey. 

Thomas  L.  Masson  (Tom  Masson),  Lit 
erary  Editor  Life;  Author;  Editor  "Hu- 

xi 


THE  JUDGES 

morous  Masterpieces  of  American  Litera 


ture." 


Theodosia  Garrison,  Author:  "The  Joy  of 
Life  and  other  Poems";  "Earth  Cry  and 
other  Poems";  Contributor  to  Magazines. 


XH 


COMPILED   AND    EDITED    UNDER   THE  JOINT   DIRECTION 
OF    THE 

PUBLICITY  COMMITTEE 

AND   THE 

HISTORICAL  AND  LITERARY  COMMITTEE 

OF   THE 

COMMITTEE  OF  ONE  HUNDRED 

Historical  and  Literary  Committee 

REV.  JOSEPH  FULFORD  FOLSOM,  Chairman 

RT.  REV.  EDWIN  S.  LINES,  D.D. 

MRS.  HENRY  H.  DAWSON 

DR.  SAMUEL  E.  ROBERTSON 

WILLIAM  T.  HUNT 

HENRY  WELLINGTON  WACK 

Publicity  Committee 

WILLIAM  B.  KINNEY,  Chairman 
JOHN  L.  O'TooLE 
JOHN  L.  CARROLL 
MORRIS  R.  SHERRERD 
WILLIAM  J.  MCCONNELL 
GEORGE  D.  SMITH 
i  JAMES  F.  CONNELLY 


xiu 


EARLY   INFLUENCES   IN 
NEWARK'S   ORIGIN 

BEFORE  considering  the  Newark  of  to 
day  and  her  recent  inspirational  enter 
prises  to  mark  the  anniversary  of  her  2^oth 
birthday,  it  may  afford  us  a  broader  view 
of  her  significance  and  stature  as  a  virile 
and  productive  city,  if  we  look  back  a  mo 
ment  upon  conditions  affecting  her  origin; 
upon  the  simpler,  ruder  life  of  the  period  of 
her  meagre  beginnings  on  the  shore  of  the 
Passaic. 

Here  we  have  to  do  with  the  destiny  of  a 
live  American  city,  founded  under  an  intol 
erant  Puritan  spirit,  but  built  by  the  tena 
cious  fibre  of  American  manhood. 

The  founders  of  the  City  of  Newark, 
New  Jersey,  in  1666,  constituted  a  small 
group  of  sturdy  men,  devout  women  and  an 
eager  band  of  New  England  children. 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

They  bad  sailed  from  the  shores  of  Con 
necticut  in  a  French  caraval  with  the  deter 
mined  purpose  to  create  a  new  habitat  for 
their  industry  and  beliefs,  their  narrow  faith 
and  its  somewhat  bigoted  impositions. 
They  bartered  their  wampum  for  the  site 
of  Newark  with  the  Lenni  Lenape  Indians; 
built  their  huts  around  a  house  of  worship 
and  invoked  God  and  man  to  do  the  rest. 

The  modern  histriographer  finds  the 
event  rich  in  romantic  and  heroic  detail. 
Shaw,  Atkinson,  Urquhart,  Folsom, 
Swayze,  Pierson  and  Stevens  have  re 
corded  the  exploits  of  that  time  in  a  man 
ner  to  preserve  their  glamour  for  all  suc 
ceeding  generations.  The  series  of  histor 
ical  articles  by  David  L.  Pierson,  which 
appeared  from  time  to  time  during  the  cele 
bration  in  the  Newark  Evening  News  and 
attracted  wide-spread  attention,  are  soon  to 
appear  in  book  form,  entitled  "Narratives 
of  Newark  from  the  Days  of  Its  Founding." 
This  work  will  be  of  inestimable  value. 
Northern  New  Jersey  shares  with  old  Am 
sterdam,  across  the  Hudson,  the  glories  and 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

romantic  traditions  of  the  Nation's  early 
life  and  struggle. 

The  birth  of  Newark  fell  upon  a  bar 
ren  period  in  American  letters.  The  Cav 
alier  ruled  Virginia  and  pursued  his  ad 
venturous  and  luxurious  career  of  aristo 
cratic  sway  and  hospitality.  Massachu 
setts,  becoming  the  citadel  of  the  frugal 
Puritan,  extended  her  influence  and  work 
with  a  fervor  far  more  spiritual.  Their 
modes  of  life  were  the  antithesis  of  each 
other.  There  was  no  substantial  artistic  im 
pulse  in  either  the  South  or  the  North  to 
produce  a  significant  literature;  men  were 
aglow  with  the  lure  of  material  matters,  the 
crude  cultivation  of  unwieldy  estates,  ques 
tions  of  trade  and  traffic,  the  government 
of  slaves,  the  planting  of  tobacco,  and  the 
winning  of  the  wilderness.  There  was  lit 
tle  culture  of  importance  in  that  rude  en 
vironment;  but  there  were  abundant  spirit 
and  energy  for  achievement  in  a  region 
where  the  heart  and  soul  of  man  had  to 
meet  the  day's  work  in  a  brave  and  steadfast 
fashion. 

3 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

In  the  northern  colonies  the  lure  of  a  na 
tional  life  was  blazing  its  trail  out  of  New 
England  and  into  New  Jersey,  Delaware 
and  Pennsylvania — where  the  Puritans, 
Dutch,  English  and  Swedes  were  following 
the  urge  of  man's  aspirations  on  the  land 
and  sea.  In  1652  Massachusetts  had  an 
nexed  Maine  towns  as  far  east  as  Casco  in 
her  reach  for  power,  and  Stuyvesant  con 
quered  New  Sweden  (Delaware)  in  1655. 
North  Carolina  was  settled  in  1663,  an^  in 
1662  Charles  II  granted  a  charter  to  Con 
necticut  and  New  Haven.  A  year  later 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line  between  the  North 
and  South  was  begun,  and  Eliot's  Bible  for 
the  Indians  printed.  In  1664  New  Ams 
terdam  was  occupied  by  the  English. 
Science,  the  handmaiden  of  civilization,  be 
gan  to  enlarge  the  activity  and  power  of 
man's  industry.  King  Philip's  War  in 
New  England  and  Bacon's  rebellion  in  Vir 
ginia  disturbed  the  opening  of  the  last  quar 
ter  of  the  seventeenth  century,  followed 
within  a  few  years  (1682)  by  the  founding 
of  Philadelphia,  the  abrogation  of  Massa- 

4 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

chusetts'  charter  two  years  later,  the  general 
suppression  of  all  charter  governments  and 
the  precipitation  of  King  William's  war. 
Then  followed  the  French  and  English  wars 
upon  our  soil.  These  were  parlous  times 
in  which  Newark  crept  from  the  lofty  in 
tentions  of  a  small  group  of  men  and  women 
to  the  crude  stature  of  an  organized  hamlet, 
to  become — 250  years  later — one  of  the 
great  industrial  centers  of  the  country. 

But  what  of  the  literature  of  that  time, 
its  slow  and  hindered  dissemination,  its  in 
fluence  on  the  pioneer  life  of  the  American 
colonies?  While  we  take  a  brief  glance  at 
the  period  surrounding  the  first  Newark 
settlement,  let  us  keep  in  mind  the  fact  that 
Newark  was  literally  founded  by  church 
secessionists  seeking  to  enforce  those  tenets 
of  their  religion  which  their  abandoned 
brethren  had  liberalized  in  the  Province 
of  Connecticut.  This  broader  religious  life 
in  the  Connecticut  towns  of  Branford,  Mil- 
ford,  Guilford  and  New  Haven  had  dis 
turbed  the  stricter,  narrower,  more  intoler 
ant  members  of  the  old  church  who  had 

5 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

come  to  found  Newark.  The  little  hamlet 
became  in  fact  the  site  of  the  last  American 
theocracy. 

During  the  period  just  before  and  after 
the  settlement  of  Newark,  we  see  Cromwell 
translating  England's  power  into  action, 
while  Charles  II  "squandered  it."  The 
Thirty  Years'  War  was  devastating  Ger 
many  while  a  more  sanguinary  war  was, 
during  Newark's  anniversary  period,  at  the 
same  infernal  game  in  all  Europe.  It  is  a 
mere  coincidence.  At  that  early  time  Rich 
elieu  was  interpreting  the  new  vision  France 
had  of  herself,  and  making  her  the  mistress 
of  Europe;  and  later  Mazarin  and  Louis 
XIV  amplified  and  realized  his  great  work. 
That  pathetic  piece  of  princely  porcelain, 
Charles  I,  was  sliding  from  his  throne  to 
stain  the  headman's  block.  Shakespeare 
had  come  and  gone,  without  bequeathing  a 
sign  of  the  fame  that  should  attach  to  his 
name  and  works.  Immortal  Milton,  pri 
vate  secretary  to  Cromwell,  was  writing 
"Paradise  Lost,"  first  published  in  1667, 
the  very  year  when  Newark's  little  govern- 

6 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

ment  assumed  orderly  significance.  What 
may  have  been  of  equal  interest  to  those  who 
dwelt  upon  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  Pas- 
saic  of  that  period  of  its  purity,  was  the  pub 
lication,  in  1653,  of  Izaak  Walton's  "Com- 
pleat  Angler."  But  may  we  not  doubt 
Puritan  interest  in  a  book  so  philosophic  of 
physical  and  mental  comfort? 

Between  1660  and  1670  some  of  the 
world's  notable  literary  and  artistic  lumi 
naries  flourished  in  Europe:  Corneille,  La 
Fontaine,  La  Rochefoucauld,  Madame  de 
Sevigne,  Moliere,  Racine,  Boileau  and  Pas 
cal  in  France.  Velasquez  and  Murillo 
were  the  master  painters  in  Spain.  Ber 
nini  the  Italian  sculptor;  Salvator  Rosa 
the  landscape  painter;  Huygens  the  Dutch 
astronomer;  Cassini  the  mathematician,  La 
Bruyere  and  Malebranche,  French  writers, 
all  contributed  to  that  decade  which  in 
cluded  the  founding  in  Paris  of  the  Gobelin 
Tapestry  fabrique  by  Louis  XIV;  the  con 
struction  of  the  first  reflecting  telescope  by 
Sir  Isaac  Newton;  the  great  London  Fire 
and  Plague  in  1666;  the  independence  of 

7 


EARLY  INFLUENCES 

Prussia;  Poland's  great  victory  under  So- 
bieski  over  the  Tartars;  the  founding  of  the 
Royal  Society  at  London  (1660)  and  the 
Academy  of  Sciences  at  Paris  in  1666.  The 
throes  of  an  expanding  civilization  were 
present  throughout  the  world.  Humanity 
was  in  a  restless  state,  in  a  mood  for  revolu 
tion  and  adventure,  for  dissenting  from  sys 
tems  of  worship  and  government  which  had 
prevailed.  The  founding  of  Newark  ap 
pears  to  have  been  inspired  by  a  world  im 
pulse  for  freedom  and  independence. 


EARLY   PURITAN    POETRY 

OF  the  poetry  of  the  early  colonists, 
nothing  significant  or  beautiful  ap 
pears  to  have  found  expression.  The  seven 
teenth  century  in  America  was  barren  of 
great  or  even  good  verse, — as  the  nineteenth 
and  twentieth  centuries  appraise  poetry. 
Except  in  rare  instances,  Colonial  versifica 
tion  was  confined  to  the  Puritan  clergy — a 
stiff,  gaunt,  fleshless  verse,  as  emaciated  in 
thought  and  spirit  as  in  beauty  and  form. 

The  most  prolific  of  the  Puritan  poets — 
so-called — was  Mrs.  Anne  Bradstreet,  who 
was  born  in  England  in  1612,  emigrated  to 
New  England  in  1630  and  settled  near  An- 
dover,  Massachusetts,  about  1644.  Her 
poems,  published  in  London  in  1650,  evoked 
some  praise;  but  critics  of  the  nineteenth 
and  twentieth  centuries  would  not  admit 
that  the  industrious  lady  had  written  any 
appreciable  body  of  poetry.  However,  she 

9 


EARLY  PURITAN  POETRY 

seems  to  have  impressed  a  prim  personality 
and  lugubrious  talent  upon  her  contempo 
raries  and  to  have  gained  some  favor  with 
her  intermittently  rheumatic  rhymes.  She 
turned  many  a  clerical  head  into  what,  at 
this  remote  day,  we  would  describe  as  a  silly 
state.  For  instance,  there  was  the  Rev.  John 
Rogers  who,  in  appreciative  ecstasy  of  the 
ravishing  effects  Mrs.  Bradstreet's  poems 
had  upon  him,  unfortunately  wrote  this 
mawkish  metaphor: 

Thus  weltering  in  delight,  my  virgin  mind 
Admits  a  rape. 

If  any  of  the  1916  Newark  poets  had  writ 
ten  such  stuff,  we  would  have  exhibited  him 
at  our  Exposition  as  a  rhymster  too  irre 
sponsible  to  be  at  large. 

In  his  excellent  analysis  of  the  scant  prod 
uct  of  seventeenth  century  American 
verse  writers  (he  justly  avoids  designating 
them  poets)  Professor  Wm.  P.  Trent  thus 
sums  up  the  lady's  poetic  merit: 

"In  substance  her  earlier  verses  are  al 
most  completely  valueless.  From  the  point 

10 


EARLY  PURITAN  POETRY 

of  view  of  style  her  poetry  interests  only  the 
technical  student,  who  will  notice  some  bal 
anced  couplets,  some  curious  rhymes,  and  at 
least  one  tribute  to  Queen  Elizabeth  that  de 
serves  to  be  memorable  for  its  infelicity:" 

"  'Mongst  hundred  hecatombs  of  roaring  verse, 
Mine  bleating  stands  before  thy  royal  hearse." 

Our  first  native-born  bard  was  the 
"learned  schoolmaster  and  physician  and  ye 
renowned  poet  of  New  England,"  Benja 
min  Tompson,  born  at  Braintree,  Massa 
chusetts,  in  1642.  He  died  at  Roxbury  in 
1714 — "Mortuus  sed  immortalis,"  as  his 
epitaph  assures  us  who  stop,  look  and  won 
der.  His  "New  England's  Crisis,"  an  epic 
of  King  Philip's  War,  was  a  commonplace 
performance  which  a  third-rate  New  York 
monthly  Cosmic  Squeal  would  endow  with 
a  rejection  slip  at  the  second  stanza. 

The  zenith  of  our  Colonial  poetics  ap 
pears  to  have  been  attained  by  Michael 
Wigglesworth  (1631-1705),  described  as 
the  typical  poet  of  Puritan  New  England. 
After  graduating  from  Harvard,  he  entered 

ii 


EARLY  PURITAN  POETRY 

the  ministry,  cheerfully  maintained  his 
poor  health,  married  several  devoted  women 
— one  at  a  time,  remember! — studied  medi 
cine  and  tried  to  heal  others,  who  could  not 
cure  himself. 

The  author  of  The  Day  of  Doom — A 
Poetical  Description  of  the  Last  Judgment, 
evidently  had  qualities  superior  to  the 
humor  of  his  muse,  for  many  loved  and  ad 
mired  him.  His  chief  work  first  appeared 
in  1662,  "and  consisted  of  a  poetical  version 
in  the  style  of  Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  of 
the  texts  of  Scripture  having  reference  to 
the  awful,  but  to  the  Puritan  mind,  con 
genial  subject."  It  has  been  sarcastically 
referred  to  as  the  New  England  Inferno. 
It  contains  very  little  near  poetry,  as  wit 
ness  the  following  speech  of  Wigglesworth's 
God  to  the  "Reprobate  Infants" — a  speech 
that  concludes: 


You  sinners  are,  and  such  a  share 

As  sinners  may  expect, 
Such  you  shall  have,  for  I  do  save 

None  but  my  own  elect. 
12 


EARLY  PURITAN  POETRY 

Yet  to  compare  your  sin  with  their 

Who  lived  a  longer  time, 
I  do  confess  yours  is  much  less, 

Though  every  sin's  a  crime. 

A  crime  it  is,  therefore  in  bliss 

You  may  not  hope  to  dwell; 
But  unto  you  I  shall  allow 

The  easiest  room  in  Hell. 

What  shall  we  think  of  a  zeal  that  would 
consign  infants  to  the  "easiest  room  in  Hell" 
— even  poetically?  If  this  was  the  accepted 
sentiment  of  the  seventeenth  century  we  owe 
a  debt  of  gratitude  to  that  force  which  lib 
erated  the  Puritan  mind  in  succeeding  years. 
It  is  a  far  cry  from  the  "poetry"  of  Wiggles- 
worth  to  that  of  Swinburne  and  Edgar  Allan 
Poe. 

But  the  object  of  this  survey  is  not  to 
analyze  the  quality  of  the  sparse  verse  which 
soothed  or  irritated  the  minds  of  the  Puri 
tans  who  came  out  of  New  England  to  settle 
upon  the  shores  of  the  Passaic.  We  merely 
intend  indicating  that  no  significant  poetry 
of  beauty  was  created  in  America  during 
the  seventeenth  century.  Such  poetry  as 

13 


EARLY  PURITAN  POETRY 

the  Puritans  had  access  to  was  the  English 
poetry  of  the  period  following  the  birth,  life 
and  death  of  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Bunyan, 
Butler,  Dryden  and  Waller.  That  they 
shut  their  minds  to  Shakespeare  and  opened 
them  to  Milton  and  Bunyan,  is  still  an  un 
settled  controversy.  There  was  such  a  stoi 
cism,  such  a  grim  and  ascetic  attitude  against 
beauty,  art,  romance,  against  all  liberal 
views  of  life's  essence,  by  Puritans  and  their 
severities,  that  few  of  their  latter-day  her 
alds  venture  to  include  in  their  pleasures  the 
poetry  of  the  Bard  of  Avon.  There  was  no 
poetry  and  little  song,  save  the  simplest 
psalms  and  hymns,  accompanying  the  ori 
gins  of  Newark.  But  there  was  an  ardent 
religious  spirit  which  centered  in  the  First 
Newark  Church  where  the  men  who 
founded  the  hamlet  composed  the  last  group 
of  those  Puritans  who  tried  to  erect  a  king 
dom  of  God  on  the  American  continent. 
Theirs  was  indeed  theocracy's  last  stand. 


CIVIC  CELEBRATIONS  AS  A  MOD 
ERN   COMMUNITY   FORCE 

IN  recent  years  city  celebrations,  historic 
pageants,  community  enterprises  of  a  so 
cial,  political,  civic  and  aesthetic  character, 
have  more  than  ever  in  our  history  marked 
the  progress  of  American  cities.  The  citi 
zen  appears  to  have  been  galvanized  out  of 
the  indifferent  individual  whose  citizenship 
began  and  ended  with  his  personal,  profes 
sional  or  industrial  interests.  In  other 
words,  men  and  women  have  realized  them 
selves  as  something  infinitely  more  than 
competitors  in  the  life  of  the  city  and  its 
gainful  opportunities.  They  have  discov 
ered  that  they  are  the  city,  and  that  as  they 
reach  out  for  higher  ideals  as  citizens,  the 
city  rises  in  the  plane  of  progressive  munici 
palities. 

The  means  by  which  American  communi 
ties  have  generated  the  spirit  of  this  new 

15 


MODERN  COMMUNITY  FORCE 

social  impulse,  this  higher  inspired  social 
consciousness,  have  varied;  but  the  motif  in 
much  of  this  work  of  remodeling  the  citizen 
for  greater  uses  to  himself  and  the  com 
munity,  has  been  largely  the  same  through 
out  the  country.  Some  have  accented  the 
spiritual  element  of  community  life,  more 
than  the  civic  or  material;  others  have  by 
reason  of  their  peculiarities  in  one  direction 
or  another,  put  stress  on  the  industrial  or  the 
aesthetic  phases  of  their  inherent  problems. 
All,  however,  have  endeavored  to  vitalize  in 
the  passive  citizen,  the  dull  taxpayer  and 
disinterested  voter,  a  sense  of  civic  responsi 
bility  to  the  city  which  affords  him  life's 
opportunities  and  their  attendant  terms  of 
comfort  and  happiness. 

St.  Louis  did  much  in  this  respect  a  few 
years  ago  by  an  historic  pageant  of  great 
beauty  and  impressive  spectacle.  Other 
cities,  many  of  them  in  New  England,  fol 
lowed  in  the  wake  of  this  splendid  way  of 
arousing  the  citizen  from  his  lethargy  or 
pulling  him  from  the  armchair  of  his  smug 
contentment.  The  celebrations  held  by  the 

16 


MODERN  COMMUNITY  FORCE 

cities  of  the  Middle  West  culminated  in 
that  superb  exposition  of  the  country's 
varied  resources — the  Panama-Pacific  Ex 
position  at  San  Francisco  in  1915.  To-day 
we  look  forward  to  many  civic  celebrations 
in  all  parts  of  the  United  States.  Their 
ideal  is  much  the  same — the  awakening  of 
the  citizen  to  his  full  civic  duty  toward  the 
city  which  sustains  him. 


THE  NEWARK  CELEBRATION 

PSYCHOLOGY  has  been  defined  as  the 
science  of  the  human  soul — the  syste 
matic  knowledge  of  its  powers  and  func 
tions.  But  how  shall  we  define  the  psychol 
ogy  of  a  great  civic  undertaking  involving 
half  a  million  souls  and  their  relation  to  the 
city  in  which  they  work  and  play? 

Perhaps  one  of  the  most  successful  in 
stances  of  a  new  spiritual  and  civic  dawn  in 
a  city  of  the  first  class,  where  the  sources  of 
population  are  variant  and  the  people  some 
what  slow  to  assimilate,  is  that  of  the  City  of 
Newark,  New  Jersey,  which  terminated  its 
a^oth  anniversary  celebration  in  October, 
1916. 

Newark  is  essentially  a  very  conservative 
old  city.  It  was  founded  by  Puritans,  of  a 
rather  narrow  concept  of  the  truer  religion. 
Newark  went  to  church.  It  worked  hard 
and  was  prone  to  mind  its  own  business  as  if 

18 


THE  NEWARK  CELEBRATION 

nothing  else  mattered.  It  was  not  particu 
larly  conscious  of  its  duty  to  any  one — least 
of  all  to  itself.  Its  social  life  had  become 
stagnant,  largely  because  it  was  so  busy  mak 
ing  money  by  producing  259  distinct  lines 
of  manufactures.  Finally,  the  Newarker 
seemed  perfectly  at  ease  about  strangling  the 
other  fellow — the  fellow  who  got  in  his  way 
to  share  or  eclipse  the  prosperity  that  was 
obviously  meant  for  all. 

To  relate  even  briefly  how  all  this  has 
been  changed  by  Newark's  wonderful  his 
toric  celebration,  would  carry  us  far  beyond 
the  limitations  of  available  space.  The  big 
fact  is  now  patent  in  all  aspects  of  Newark's 
life.  Newark  has  in  two  years  become  a 
city  of  metropolitan  feeling  and  stature. 
She  has  become  a  community  of  actively  co 
operating  citizens,  loyal  to  the  city's  best  in 
terests,  militant  in  her  defense,  earnest,  pro 
gressive,  spiritually  awakened  and  greatly 
surcharged  with  a  new  civic  spirit. 

When  two  years  ago,  Newark  began 
preparations  for  her  long  celebration  pe 
riod,  she  had  a  population  of  381,000.  She 

19 


THE  NEWARK  CELEBRATION 

now  has  408,000!  And  Newark  is  growing 
rapidly.  Her  schools  are  amongst  the  best 
in  the  country.  Her  library  is  one  of  the 
most  useful  and  progressive.  Her  park 
system  is  unsurpassed.  Her  public-spirited 
men  have  an  intensified  interest  in  the  pres 
ent  and  a  lofty  vision  of  the  city's  future. 

Civic  celebrations,  rationally  planned  and 
ably  carried  out,  yield  enormous  dividends. 
Newark  spent  about  $400,000,  all  told,  on 
her  civic  regeneration.  There  was  no  re 
action;  there  can  be  none  as  Newark 
handled  her  finely  conceived  affair. 


20 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE  OF  THE  NEW 
ARK  POETRY  COMPETITION 

AMONGST  other  inspirational  features 
of  its  anniversary  program,  Newark 
undertook  an  unusual  literary  enterprise. 
It  offered  $1,000  in  prizes  for  poems  upon 
the  city's  2^oth  anniversary.  It  invited  all 
kinds  of  poems,  from  any  part  of  the  world, 
on  any  phase  of  Newark's  historical,  indus 
trial,  social,  aesthetic  or  civic  life.  Odes 
and  epics,  sonnets,  blank  verse,  ballads,  lyr 
ics,  vers  libre,  songs  and  satires,  limericks 
and  jingles,  all  had  opportunity  to  qualify 
for  the  thirteen  cash  awards,  divided  into  a 
first  prize  of  $250;  a  second  of  $150,  a  third 
of  $100,  and  ten  of  $50  each.  All  awards 
were  based  upon  the  sheer  poetic  merit  of 
the  poems  submitted,  regardless  of  their 
form.  The  competition  opened  in  Jan 
uary  and  closed  in  December,  1916.  Of 
the  900  odd  entries  submitted,  about  550 

21 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

were  of  that  quality  or  interest  which  car 
ried  them  to  the  final  consideration  of  the 
seven  judges  appointed  to  read  the  poems 
and  determine  their  relative  merit.  Four 
of  the  judges  were  drawn  from  Newark, 
three  from  the  nation. 

Forty-two  States  and  five  foreign  coun 
tries  participated  in  the  competition,  which 
indicates  its  wide  publicity  value  to  the  city 
of  Newark. 

The  highest  number  of  merit  points  ob 
tainable  was  700.  The  first  prize  was  won 
by  Clement  Wood,  of  New  York  City,  with 
675  points;  the  second  by  Mrs.  Anna  B. 
Mezquida,  of  San  Francisco,  with  575 
points;  the  third  by  Albert  E.  Trombly, 
Philadelphia,  with  540  points.  The  fol 
lowing  authors  won  the  ten  special  prizes  of 
$50  each : 

Sayers  Coe,  Glen  Ridge,  N.  J. ;  Katherine 
Baker,  Wildwood,  N.  J.;  Haniel  Long, 
Pittsburgh,  Pa.;  Minnie  J.  Reynolds,  West 
Portal,  N.  J.;  Alice  Reade  Rouse,  Coving- 
ton,  Ky. ;  James  H.  Tuckley,  Irvington,  N. 
J.;  Berton  Braley,  New  York  City;  Simon 

22 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

Barr,  New  York  City;  Ezra  Pound,  Lon 
don,  England;  Edward  N.  Teal,  Bloom- 
field,  N.  J. 

A  brief  view  of  the  humor  and  pathos  of 
this  unique  enterprise  may  add  leaven  to  the 
content  of  this  little  volume. 

When  the  poems  were  first  invited,  our 
poets  did  not  display  an  adequate  degree  of 
fine  frenzy.  The  following  jingle  was 
thereupon  published  in  The  Neivarker,  of 
ficial  journal  of  the  celebration,  and  copies 
thereof  mailed  to  verse  writers  throughout 
the  United  States: 

COME,  ALL  YE  POETS 

Come,  all  ye  poets,  great  and  small, 
Ye   little  fat  ones  and  ye  tall, 
Ye  who  so  sweetly  poetize, 
And  ye  who  sadly  advertise 
The  fact  that  even  ye  can  not 
Write  aught  save  merry  tommyrot! 

Come  join  our  spring  quatrainian  band, 
E'en  though  your  feet  and  meter  stand 
Deep  in  a  hexametric  pile 
Of  gasiambics  plucked  of  style. 

23 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

Remember,  Newark's  just  of  age, 
And  "poet-lariats,"  the  rage! 

Send  in  your  verse  of  Newark-town 
Before  the  June  first  sun  goes  down; 
By  mail,  express  or  auto  vans, 
In  bundles,  bales  or  polished  cans. 
Just  so  you  sing  with  poet's  grace — 
You  all  may  win  this  Epic  Race. 

This  gay  little  ditty  started  'em  all  over 
the  land.  Poems  began  to  rain  upon  us. 
That  miserable  little  screed,  hurriedly  writ 
ten  by  the  Editor  of  The  Newarker  on  a 
street  car,  did  for  us  what  a  dignified  and 
artistically  printed  appeal  had  failed  to  do. 
It  woke  the  Muse  in  a  cheerful  and  human 
way,  which  speaks  effectively  for  the  human 
way  in  all  endeavor. 

The  judges  had  a  laborious  time  of  it. 
Their  score  cards  are  a  laconic  record  of 
poetic  conceits.  They  are  in  many  instances 
the  epitaph  of  poets  who,  though  alive  and 
chirping,  were  poetically  as  dead  as  cab 
bages  in  December. 

Having  invited  satires,  as  well  as  odes, 

24 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

Newark  received  many  fine,  disdainful 
poetic  digs  from  those  who  would  not  see 
the  idyllic  phases  of  her  life.  One  sour- 
visaged  editor  wrote: 

What!  write  a  song  of  Newark  Town? 
I  say!     Do  you  really  mean  it? 
Then  hail  a  gaseous  factory  clown, 
To  make  your  whistles  scream  it! 

The  number  of  persons,  generally  normal, 
who  believe  they  are  poets,  is  a  source  of 
constant  amazement,  delight  and  sorrow  to 
an  editor.  An  otherwise  substantial  chunk 
of  house-wifely  flesh,  left  her  pots  and  pans 
one  day  and  wrote  us  this  pathetic  plaint: 

Kind  Sir,  please  buy  my  hard  wrote  rime, 

If  not  jest  now,  some  uther  time, 

I  have  no  grub,  the  fire  is  out, 

And  my  drunk  husband's  up  the  spout! 

It  wrung  the  heart  of  the  Committee  of 
One  Hundred  to  see  this  human  touch  go 
into  the  Official  Waste  Basket. 

One  wild  Manhattan  poet,  contributor  to 
the  affinity  literature  of  the  breakfast 

25 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

dailies,    wrote    this    hellish    little    gem    of 
Newark: 

Mad  as  the  throb  of  the  drum-beats  in  hell, 

Mad  with  the  throb  of  the  city  am  I, 
Mad  to  buy  souls  and  madder  to  sell, 
Mad  with  the  price  of  the  city  am  I, 
Maddened,  dishevelled, 
Maddened,  bedevilled, 
Mad,  on  the  streets  of  the  city  to  lie. 

A  prisoner  in  St.  Quentin  Prison,  Cali 
fornia,  a  man  of  education,  an  acknowl 
edged  composer  of  ability,  formerly  a  resi 
dent  of  Newark,  submitted  an  ode  on 
Newark  which  the  prison  chaplain  who 
transmitted  it  felt  confident  would  win  a 
prize.  The  story  of  the  author's  misfor 
tune  was  a  good  magazine  story;  but  the 
prison-made  ode  did  not  survive. 

That  philosophic  iconoclast,  Ezra  Pound, 
earlier  exponent  of  the  Imagist  School  of 
Poetic  Palpitation,  writing  from  London, 
assaulted  our  civic  sensibilities  in  a  poem 
of  violence  directed  at  the  head,  heart,  and 
hands  of  Newark.  Of  his  poem,  one  of  the 
judges  remarked  that  it  is  "Captious,  arro- 

26 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

gant,  hypercritical,  but  some  merit."  An 
other  judge  cast  it  into  the  discard.  But  it 
won  a  prize  and  fits  snugly  into  the  ration 
ale  of  the  present  volume.  Also  there  is 
food  for  thought  in  our  London  poet's  cate- 
chistic  cadences.  Let  us  not  begrudge  him 
the  high  appraisal  of  our  poetry  judges. 

The  competition  revealed  many  contrasts. 
The  winner  of  the  first  prize  with  an  im 
pressive  chant  of  a  thousand  words  entitled : 
"The  Smithy  of  God,"  also  submitted  the 
following  dismal  conception  of  Newark's 
celebration : 

Soldiers,    autos    shall    parade, 
Music  blare  and  poets  carol; 

Wine  will  flow,  and  lemonade, 
From  the  barrel. 

That  is  pretty  bad  stuff  for  Q.  H.  Flaccus 
of  Manhattan  to  have  written  with  his  left 
hand  and  then  to  have  won  the  first  prize 
with  his  right.  "Lemonade  from  the  bar 
rel!"  May  the  god  Bacchus  meet  this 
citrous  fellow  somewhere  in  the  Bronx  and 
fell  him  with  a  drop  of  wine. 

27 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

A  famous  American  poet,  an  author  whose 
name  is  known  throughout  the  English- 
speaking  world,  a  singer  frequently  pub 
lished  and  highly  paid  by  American  editors, 
submitted  an  historic  ode  of  nearly  1,000 
words.  It  is  carefully  wrought  in  a  serious 
vein.  Many  of  the  couplets  and  stanzes  are 
of  exceptional  charm. 

The  points  awarded  to  this  poem  were 
only  200  out  of  700,  about  28  J4  per  cent,  of 
par.  This  is,  perhaps,  the  surprise  of  the 
Newark  Poetry  Competition.  It  shows 
that  when  the  big  men  of  the  poetic  world 
are  handed  a  ready-made  theme  to  write 
about,  they  do  not  always  do  themselves 
justice,  nor  render  the  subject  adequate  or 
effective  poetic  service.  There  is,  of  course, 
no  serious  significance  in  their  failure;  nor 
in  the  fact  that  a  very  young  poet,  more  or 
less  critical  of  the  present  order  of  life  in 
large  cities,  and  lacking  that  experience  of 
life  which  elder  poets  may  have  had,  should 
more  ably  interpret  a  city  to  itself  and  win 
first  place  in  a  class  of  over  900  competitors. 

Another  popular  poet,  whose  name  is  fa- 
28 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

miliar  to  magazine  readers  throughout  the 
United  States,  received  marks  of  only  75 
for  his  entry  in  the  Newark  competition. 
Five  of  the  judges  sent  his  poem  to  the  dis 
card.  And  yet  we  read  his  delightful 
verses  monthly  in  many  publications. 

"Keats  II,"  an  anonymous  author,  sub 
mitted  a  sonnet  on  the  Newark  pageant.  It 
was  a  poet's  poem,  a  thing  of  grace  and  sub 
stance.  But  the  judges  awarded  it  only  250 
points  out  of  700.  "Keats  II"  then  sub 
mitted  that  poem  anonymously  to  12  of  the 
leading  poets  and  critics  in  the  country. 
These  awarded  his  sonnet  1025  points  out  of 
1 200.  "From  this,"  he  facetiously  re 
marked,  "we  may  infer  that  the  Newark 
poetry  judges  were  not  the  last  word  on  the 
merit  of  poetry." 

But  such  is  the  fate  of  all  poetry — it  tastes 
differently  in  every  mind.  Nor  is  a  certain 
prevailing  taste  in  a  bizarre  and  incoherent 
form  of  so-called  poetry  to  be  accounted 
for  outside  the  sphere  of  alienists  and  ob 
servation  wards. 

Much  modern  verse,  with  a  lamentable 
29 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

lack  of  character  and  clarity,  but  very  audi 
ble,  and  defying  accepted  forms,  is  impos 
ing  upon  the  somnolent  editor  groping  for 
the  vague  and  opaque.  The  free  verse 
guild  is  having  its  innings  and  the  older 
poetic  measures  have  been  put  away  in  moth 
balls  and  cotton.  Thought  is  now  ap 
proached  from  the  rear  and  orchestrated 
with  barbaric  prosody.  The  Intellectuals; 
the  Cognoscenti;  the  Dolly  Dinkles  of  the 
cubistic  literature;  the  weird  profundities  of 
the  Imagists,  interpreting  the  scrap  heap  of 
mad  emotions ;  all  these  have  joined  the  ob 
scurantists  of  the  obvious  and  serenaded  the 
heights  and  the  abyss  with  their  tatter 
demalion  poetry.  The  Shade  of  Democri- 
tus  smiles. 

But  the  New  Poetry  is  not  all  of  this  char 
acter.  There  is  a  fresh  beauty  and  rational 
freedom  in  some  of  it  which  augurs  well 
for  a  period  when  the  poetry  of  the  world  is 
meeting  greater  inspirations  than  have  ever 
prevailed  in  human  crises. 


A  PLEA  FOR  A  NATIONAL  AN 
THOLOGY  OF  AMERI 
CAN  POETRY 

IS  it  not  time — especially  now,  when  the 
world  is  seeking  new  foundations  of 
faith  in  mankind,  groping  for  the  impulse 
of  a  new  aesthetic  progress,  and  calling  for 
the  legitimate  expression  of  an  enlivened 
patriotic  spirit — that  the  nation  should  rec 
ognize  and  encourage  that  element  of  Amer 
ican  genius  which  utters  itself  through  the 
art  of  poetry? 

Have  we  become  so  absorbed  in  material 
thrift;  so  much  a  people  of  action;  so  im 
patient  of  thought  that  is  not  swift  and  com 
mon-place,  that  precludes  meditation,  as  to 
render  futile  a  plea  for  the  most  enduring 
of  all  forms  of  expression?  May  we  hope, 
on  the  verge  of  a  great  national  crisis,  while 
the  emotions  of  the  American  people  are 
gaining  new  accents  and  greater  depth  from 

31 


A  NATIONAL  ANTHOLOGY 

day  to  day;  when  the  forces  of  their  destiny 
are  fusing  the  national  life  into  master 
movements  and  directing  them  to  forfend 
shock  from  without,  that  our  cultural  State 
and  National  organizations  dealing  with 
the  arts,  sciences  and  letters,  shall  adopt 
practical  means  for  the  recognition,  encour 
agement,  critical  appraisal  and  publication 
of  the  country's  poetic  product  from  year  to 
year?  A  permanent  official  National  An 
thology  of  American  Poetry  would  be  an 
inspirational  force  in  American  letters. 

We  have  museums  in  which  the  pictorial 
arts  are  displayed  and  preserved.  We  have 
institutions  of  science;  a  National  Academy 
of  Art;  many  art  societies  in  every  State; 
schools  of  design,  of  technology,  of  nearly 
every  branch  of  the  arts  and  sciences — ex 
cept  poetry,  that  waif  of  the  public  esteem 
which  no  State  or  Federal  government  or 
private  munificence  has  come  forward  to 
adopt  and  systematically  nourish  in  a  ra 
tional  and  practical  manner.  May  we  not 
expect  that  the  American  Academy  of  Arts 
and  Letters  will  extend  its  functions  in  this 

32 


A  NATIONAL  ANTHOLOGY 

direction  at  a  time  never  more  oppor 
tune? 

Libraries  as  dead  as  Arabic  have  been 
profusely  piled  high  in  many  parts  of  the 
country  for  men  and  women  too  much  en 
slaved  in  their  shops  and  homes  to  visit  them 
for  study  or  recreation.  Millions  upon  mil 
lions  of  money  have  been  expended  for  these 
and  other  philanthropies.  But  who  has 
beckoned  poetry  into  a  congenial  fireside, 
into  an  environment  where  creative  research 
would  thrive,  a  Hall  of  Fame  to  which 
every  American  poet  might  aspire ;  to  which 
the  State  Sections  could  each  year  send  their 
approved  poetic  product  for  the  National 
Anthology  of  American  Poetry? 

We  are  the  Big  International  Boy,  heavy- 
and-busily-handed ;  noisily-footed,  gener 
ous,  impulsive,  superficial  and  rude.  In 
our  radiant  sense  of  well-being,  we  have  not 
regarded  many  of  the  legitimate  aesthetic 
phases  of  a  national  development.  We  still 
have  much  culture — to  gain.  We  lack  re 
pose.  We  have  no  leisure  class  to  exemplify 
its  beauty  and  public  value.  Each  of  us 

33 


A  NATIONAL  ANTHOLOGY 

is  hurrying  to  get — where?  To  life's  bar 
ren,  disappointed,  unmemoried  end.  And 
yet  we  must  have  generated  something  akin 
to  a  genuine  national  spirit.  Perhaps  the 
impending  crisis  will  crystallize  and  direct 
it.  A  great  Belgian — the  finest  ideal  of 
parenthood  in  Europe — once  said  to  me  as 
I  sat  worshipping  the  philosophic  grandeur 
of  his  character:  "Americans  are  driven 
by  steam  and  electricity;  by  ambition  for 
gold  and  power;  by  extravagant  creature 
comforts  and  display;  by  physical  pleasures 
still  more  or  less  gross.  All  virile  young 
nations,  young  men  and  women,  are  simi 
larly  actuated.  But  some  day  you  will  learn 
to  respect  thought  without  the  accompani 
ment  of  noisy  action;  meditation  without 
heralds;  a  philosophy  and  a  religion  of  the 
heart  as  well  as  of  the  mind.  That  will  be 
the  awakening  of  your  nation's  soul.  Until 
then  you  will  be  a  big,  boisterous  boy,  too 
big,  too  vital,  too  restless  for  man's  quiet  lit 
tle  temples  in  the  hills." 

The   idea  of   a  National   Anthology  of 
American  Poetry  wherein  the  best  Ameri- 

34 


A  NATIONAL  ANTHOLOGY 

can  poems  produced  during  the  preceding 
year  shall  appear  and  be  appraised  under 
competent  institutional  or  government  aus 
pices,  can  be  realized  without  practical  dif 
ficulty. 

Each  State,  or  an  eligible  organization 
therein,  should  appoint  a  suitable  body — 
council,  commission,  jury,  chapter,  board  or 
section — to  be  the  authorized  clearing  house 
for  that  State  of  the  manuscripts  submitted, 
or,  if  published,  admitted  as  qualified,  dur 
ing  the  year.  Each  State's  representation 
in  the  National  Anthology  shall  be  based 
upon  its  relative  population.  The  total 
number  of  poems  to  be  accepted  for  and 
published  in  the  anthology  annually  shall 
be  one  hundred  for  all  the  States,  with  four 
additional  poems  taken  respectively  from 
the  Eastern,  Western,  Northern  and  South 
ern  sections  of  the  country.  Poems  for  the 
anthology  may  be  limited  to  1,000  words, 
with  power  in  the  national  body  to  modify 
the  rule  in  exceptional  cases. 

A  central  or  national  body,  either  Federal 
in  origin  and  character,  or  created  from  the 

35 


A  NATIONAL  ANTHOLOGY 

rank  of  an  eminent  literary,  art  or  scientific 
society, — such,  for  instance,  as  the  American 
Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters  or  the  Aca 
demic  Francaise, — shall  receive  and  judge 
of  the  relative  merits  of  the  104  poems  en 
tered  for  place  in  the  anthology  by  the  States 
and  four  sectional  divisions  of  the  country. 
To  the  best  poem  so  entered  the  national 
body  shall  award  the  highest  honor  for  the 
year,  an  award  which  shall  be  evidenced  by 
the  first  place  in  the  anthology.  Its  certifi 
cate  of  the  honor  conferred  shall  be  issued  to 
the  author  of  the  work  so  appraised.  To  the 
second  and  third  poems  of  relative  merit, 
honors  shall  be  awarded  in  like  degree  and 
officially  evidenced  by  certificates.  A 
special  honor  shall  be  bestowed  upon  the 
best  poem  entered  from  any  sectional  di 
vision.  Thus  four  honors  are  provided  in 
addition  to  the  distinction  of  a  place  in  the 
anthology.  Space  forbids  discussion  of 
greater  detail.  Enough  has  been  indicated 
to  outline  the  plan  of  the  substructure  of 
the  national  and  State  bodies,  their  operation 
and  purpose. 

36 


A  NATIONAL  ANTHOLOGY 

As  endowments  are  created  by  private, 
institutional  or  governmental  provision, 
they  can  be  applied  as  the  national  body,  in 
association  with  the  State  bodies,  may  de 
termine. 

The  sale  of  such  an  authoritative  national 
anthology,  in  which  the  chosen  poems  and 
their  authors  are  competently  discussed, 
will  more  than  sustain  itself  and  defray  the 
expenses  of  the  national  body  until  endow 
ments  or  other  means  become  available.  It 
would  be  a  sad  commentary  upon  our  great 
nation  if  the  cultural  work  herein  advocated 
should  lack  financial  support  and  the  patri 
otic  service  of  American  scholars. 

There  is,  moreover,  an  immediate  neces 
sity  for  lifting  anthologies  of  current  Amer 
ican  poetry  above  the  commercial  plane 
upon  which  they  seem  likely  to  be  promoted 
by  individuals  whose  taste  in  poetry,  whose 
perception  of  its  tendencies  and  appraisal 
of  its  merits,  is  not  representative  of  the 
country  nor  of  its  competent  critical  judg 
ment.  We  may  even  go  further  and  con 
demn  that  hardihood  which  arrogates  to 
37 


A  NATIONAL  ANTHOLOGY 

itself  the  right  to  compile  and  publish  the 
product  of  a  favored  brood  of  wayward 
poeticules,  whose  unmetrical  aberrations 
mark  the  febrile  epidemics  of  the  time 
rather  than  any  legitimate  progress  in  the 
poetry  of  the  period,  and  stamp  it  as  the 
best  American  poetry  of  the  year.  That 
recent  publications  of  this  character,  glutted 
with  the  cubistic  caterwauling  of  weird 
young  men  and  asbestos  femininity,  should 
flagrantly  reveal,  in  the  intemperate  praise 
of  their  compilers,  the  press  agents  of  a 
group  of  crippled  versifiers  without  gleam 
or  expressional  facility,  is  but  one  element 
in  a  situation  which  urges  the  establishment 
of  an  authoritative  national  anthology.  In 
its  larger  aspect,  biased  publications  of  this 
character  are  bound  to  injure  the  position 
to  which  twentieth  century  American  poetry 
is  entitled,  not  so  much  because  of,  as  in  spite 
of,  the  recent  advent  of  many  members  of 
the  free  verse  guild  and  their  grotesqueries. 
Much  beauty,  but  more  madness,  has  been 
lately  put  forth  under  the  Imagist  banner. 
Like  the  modern  dance  which  began  with 

38 


A  NATIONAL  ANTHOLOGY 

delirium,  modern  poetry  of  genuine  worth 
must  purge  itself  of  the  harpies  who  are  cor 
rupting  it. 

Briefly  then,  if  American  poets,  of  what 
ever  school  or  style  of  expression,  are  to  be 
annually  exhibited  in  an  anthology,  let  the 
latter  be  truly  representative  of  the  best  of 
current  American  poetry,  and  let  the  judg 
ment  of  its  merit  issue  from  a  source  and  in 
a  manner  which  will  insure  its  integrity. 
The  creation  of  a  National  Anthology  of 
American  Poetry  achieves  this  purpose. 


39 


THE  ANNIVERSARY  POEMS 


CELEBRATION  ODE 


GREAT  City  of  our  love  and  pride, 
Whose  centuried  fame  is  nation-wide, 

And  wider  than  the  alien  seas, 
To  her  we  cry  "All  hail!"  and  bring 
Devotion's  gifts  the  while  we  swing 
Censers  of  burning  loyalties. 

She   answers   in   the   regnant   mood 
Of   Love's  triumphant  motherhood, 

As  round  her  surge  the  chants  and  cheers 
Of  joyous  hosts  that  celebrate 
Her  times  of  eld,  her  new  estate, 

Her  quarter  of  a  thousand  years. 

II 

The  sun  in  heaven  did  shine 

And  all  the  earth  sang  "glory." 

'Twas  Beauty's  immemorial  sign, 
And  Nature's  annual  story. 

The  woodland  birds  were  all  awing; 

The  hills  and  vales  were  rich  with  bloom; 
43 


CELEBRATION  ODE 

'Twas  Mayday,  heyday  of  the  Spring, 

And  Life's  fresh  gladness  and  perfume. 

The  fairest  flower  that  decks  the  earth, 

In  any  clime  or  season, 
Is  that  of  a  great  ideal  whose  worth 
Time  proves  at  the  hest  of  Reason. 
'Twas  such  they  brought,  in  those  days  of  yore, 
And  planted  deep  on  our  Jersey  shore, — 
A  strange  new  flower  whose  growth  became 
Love's  healing  for  the  civic  frame. 

It  spread  and  every  dawn  was  brighter 

And   every  creature  obeyed   its   thrall; 
We  count  the  others  lesser,  slighter — 

The  Rose  of  Freedom  is  worth  them  all. 
The  bluebirds  know  it, 
The  grasses  show  it, 

The  south  winds  waft   it   through   mart   and 

street ; 

All  else  may  perish, 
'T  is  ours  to  cherish 

This  Jersey   blossom   from    Robert   Treat. 

Ill 

Hail  Robert  Treat  the  Puritan, 
And  the  brave  thirty  of  his  clan! 

And  that  far  fair  Elizabeth, 
44 


CELEBRATION  ODE 

Whose  feet  were  first  to  tread  our  soil, 

A  Puritan  maid,  whose  betrothal  breath, 
Fragrant  with  legendary  grace  that  knows  not 
death, 

Works  witchery  naught  may  e'er  despoil! 

Superior  souls  were  they, 

Who,  in  yon  earlier  time 
Of  Oraton's  rude  Indian  sway, 

Began  this  commonwealth  sublime. 
They  laid  foundations  deep  and  strong. 
The  while  they  built  they  sang  that  battle  song 
The  Ironsides  chanted  at  Naseby  and  Marston  Moor, 
And  all  the  hosts  of  freedom  shout  it  forevermore. 

The  eyes  of  later  sons  behold 

Their  fathers'  faith  and  dreams  of  old, 

Their  Puritanism  clear  and  brave, 

Love's  sterner  instrument  to  save, 

Truth's  temple  built  with  frame  august, 

To  keep  our  great  committals  from  the  dust. 

IV 

List  to  the  stir  of  the  minute  men! 
Hark  to  the  roll  of  drums 

And    the   tramping   of    armed    feet! 
Lo,  the  great  commander  comes — 

Washington,  leading  a  great  retreat! 
Welcome  them  patriots,  now  as  then! 

45 


CELEBRATION  ODE 

What  soul  was  his  to  perceive  the  stair 

From  sky  down  sheer  to  the  Delaware, 

And  trailing  pageantry  of  light! 

What  seer  of  the  nearing  Christmas  night 

To  hear  God's  bells  through  the  wintry  gloom 

Toll  out  the  foeman's  doom! 

O  seven-year  fury  of  war, 

For  sake  of  a  golden  dream ! 
No  whit  of  Old  Glory,  or  Stripe  or  Star, 
Shall  ever  bear  stain  or  mar, 

While  men  remember  redemption's  stream, 
And  cherish  the  all-consuming  blaze 

Of  Freedom's  holy  battle  ire — 
Those  Revolutionary  days 

When  Jersey's  blood  was  fire. 


O  Peace,  thou  gentle  one! 
No  sound  of  belching  gun 
Displays  thy  heavenly  part; 
For  Beauty's  architect  thou  art. 
Thou  buildest  domes  of  grace 

That  catch  and  echo  back 

The  spirit's  joyous  singing. 
Thy  high  and  sacred  place 

Is  where  no  tempest's  wrack 

Its  bolts  of  hate  are  flinging. 


CELEBRATION  ODE 

The  elements  of  air  ami  earth! 

What  willing  slaves  thev  fast  became 
To    those   new    masters!    Solid   worth 

Rose  from  the  dust  to  shining  trame. 
Th'  expulsive  smithy  tire. 

The  mill-wheel's  creaking  sounds. 
Stage-coach,  the  "Old   First"  spire. 

"The   Hunters  and   the   Hounds." 
The  workshop,  mart  and  school. 

And  "Cockloft   Hall." 
And  Combs  and  Hoyden  snapping  custom's  rule 

Across  the  knees  tit  genius!— History's  thrall 
V  n wraps  and  brings  the  glow  ot  worthy  pride 
To  us  to  whom  our  fathers'  gifts  were  undenied. 

VI 

War  clouds  were  wildly  gathering. 

One  rode  through  the  City's  streets, 
I* nder  Fate's  horoscopes. 

Men  bowed  in  awe  as  he  passed — 

Lincoln,   the  hope  of   a   Nation's  hopes. 

Riding  to  meet  the  approaching 

blast. 
O  Newark,  what  memories  spring 

Out  of  thy  deep  heart-beats! 

The  black  storm   rolled,  surcharged  with  thunder. 
While  levin  of  hate  tore  the  sky  asunder; 

47 


CELEBRATION  ODE 

The  earth  yawned  wide  and  incarnadine; 

Deep  hells  flared  forth  where  heavens  had  been; 

And  Jersey's  soul  was  a  sacred  cup 

Filled  unto  the  brim  with  patriot  blood, 
And  offered,  thank  God,  sublimely  up 

For    Freedom    and    Country.     And    thus    she 

stood, 

And  thus  men  marched,  her  heroes  marched — 
The  ebon  sky  with  light  unarched — 
And  thus  the  regiments  marched,  and  marched  away, 
The  regiments  marched  day  after  day, 
While  tears  were  hot  upon  ashen  faces, 
And  anguish  was  mistress  of  love's  embraces, 
O  God!  but  it  was  terrible,  terrible, — 
'Twas  part  of  a  Nation's  taste  of  hell, 
To  be  inspirer  to  oppressed  nations, 
Emancipator  of  future  generations. 
O  City  of  heroes !     Thou  didst  thy  duty  well. 

Beautiful  days  since  then  have  been — 

Days  of  our  golden  heritage. 

Right  is  the  warrior's  master  wage; 
Peace  is  the  guerdon  that  freemen  win. 

VII 

What  is  this  with  its  mighty  thunderings 

Shaking  a  city's  fundaments? 
This  is  the  voice  composite  of  toil  that  springs 

Out  of  ten  thousand  fiery  vents. 

48 


CELEBRATION  ODE 

This  is  the  roar  of  a  city's  industrial  life, 

Throb  of  her  engines,  whirr  of  her  wheels, 
Furnace  and  dynamo,  traffic  and  artistry  rife, 

Strenuous  giant  that  rages  and  reels 
Backward  and  forward  with  passion  cyclonic  strained, 

Lifting  gigantic  arms  and  hands 
Glutted  with  products,  by  sweat  and  by  sinew  gained, 

Offered  to  native  and  alien  lands. 

Wise  men  who  follow  Love's  starry  frame, 
Here  in  this  modern  age, 

See  where  it  hovers  now 
Sheer  over  smokestack  and  belching  of  flame, 
Greet  Right's  increasing  wage, 
Unto  his  triumphs  bow. 

VIII 

Queen  City  of  Industry! 

And  whence  doth  wisdom  come? 
Never  a  mortal  son, 
Only  the  Throned  One 
Is  great  enough  for  thee 

And  all  thy  radiant  future's  sum. 
Thy  sires  immortal  on  heights  above 

Chant  Vision's  increasing  strain, — 

'T  is  God  alone  has  the  right  to  reign, 
Since  He  is  the  Lord  of  Love. 


49 


CELEBRATION  ODE 

The  discords  of  drudgery  turn  to  melodious  measures 

That  fill  the  machinery  of  toil  ; 
Faith's  song  of  emancipation,  time's  chiefest  of  treasures, 

Ascends  out  of  life's  turmoil. 
The  heart  of  the  quickening  world  rejoices; 

Democracy's  prophets  command,  "Make  way!" 
While  Wealth  and  Labor,  with  federate  voices, 

Proclaim  the  Earth's  New  Day, 
And  all  the  hosts  of  service  spring 

Up  the  steep  slopes  of  righteousness, 

To  answer  Justice  with  loud  "Yes," 
To  answer  Love  as  'twere  their  King. 


IX 

Out  of  the  marshes  she  proudly  rises, 
Greeting  her  Golden  Age; 

Civic  symbol  of  Art's  emprises, 
Liberty's  heritage, 

Triumph  of  Industry,  Glory  of  Miracle, 

Facing  the  Future's  alluring  spell. 

Set  all  the  whistles  blowing! 
Set  all  the  flags  a-flying! 

Cheer  her  predestined  majesty! 
Chant  her  apocalypse! 


CELEBRATION  ODE 

Up  to  her  feet  the  sea  is  flowing  ; 

Thousands  of  eager  ships  are  lying 

Waiting  her  on  the  invaded  sea. 

Hers  are  the  sea  and  the  ships. 
Blow,  whistles  blow !     Wave  flags  unfurled ! 
Newark  belongs  to  the  world. 

LYMAN  WHITNEY  ALLEN. 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  NEWARK 
PAGEANT  AND  MASQUE 

THE  DRUMMER 
[Appears  in  the  belfry  of  the  south  pylon,  beating 


his 

Oyez,  Oyez,  folk  of  this  town,  Oyez! 
Behold,  I  beat  for  you  the  years  away, 
Drum  out  the  rhythmic  seasons,  make  the  Spring 
Dance  and  the  Summer  sing,  the  Autumn  blaze, 
The  Winter  whiten  drift  on  drift,  and  thaw 
Again  into  the  flowery  drifts  of  May. 
Three  score  and  seven  years  I  beat,  and  these 
The  founders  and  the  fathers  of  the  town, 
The  stern  and  solemn  pioneers,  descend 
To  honored  rest,  and  them  I  wake  no  more. 
But  through  these  years  a  fire  hath  smouldered  deep 
Amid  the  toils  and  prayers  —  a  fire  of  wrong: 
And  now  .  .  . 

With  violent  breath  to  cry  injustices 
It  flames  aloft.     And  Learning,  sedulous 
Of  quiet  days,  shrinks  from  the  storm,  but  leaves 
In  the  high  heart  of  youth  the  battle  cry, 
And  freedom's  trumpets  with  the  bells  of  faith 

52 


POETRY  OF  THE  PAGEANT 

Chiming  together.     "Times  that  try  men's  souls" 

Are  these,  and  brands  upon  the  gale  of  war 

Blow  round  our  spires,  and  thunders  of  close  battles 

Nearer  and  nearer  strike  upon  our  ears. 

Awake,  ye  drums !     Listen,  all  ye  who  dream, 

For  here  I  rouse  from  the  dark  sleep  of  time 

The  vision  of  that  mighty  discontent 

As  here  it  burned,  that  lashed  the  land  to  flame. 

[The  roll  of  the  drums  sounds  again,  diminishes, 
and  the  DRUMMER  disappears.] 

THE  BELLMAN 

[Appears  in  the  belfry  of  the  north  pylon,  ringing 
his  bell.] 

The  smokes  of  battle  lift,  and  a  new  day, 
A  day  of  freedom  dearly  bought,  dawns  here. 
And  a  new  nation  rising  from  a  dream 
Shakes  off  her  sleep  and  looks  with  hopeful  eyes 
Upon  the  morn.     Ring  clear,  O  Newark  bells, 
To  greet  again  the  honored  guest,  the  friend 
Of  the  Republic,  Lafayette.     And  ring 
For  that  strong  man  of  cunning  hand  and  brain, 
Seth  Boyden,  who  with  high  humility 
Gave  to  our  city  and  the  world  his  toil, 
And  asking  naught,  made  richer  all  our  days; 
For  in  his  name  we  roll  the  many  names 
Of  those  who  by  invention  and  design 

53 


POETRY  OF  THE  PAGEANT 

Have  given  garlands  to  the  city's  brow, 

And  golden  words,  and  fame  throughout  the  land. 

Ring  for  the  years  that  circle  silently 

Till  here  again  our  vision  groweth  bright 

Upon  the  glow  and  mirth  and  festival, 

And  on  the  day  when  Newark  doffed  the  cloak, 

The  ancient  village  cloak,  and  stood  new-girt 

In  a  grave  City's  robes;  and  yet  again 

Upon  the  loyal  townsmen  when  the  word 

Of  Lincoln's  coming  stirred  along  the  streets, 

And  men  went  forth  to  meet  the  gathering  storm. 

[The    bell    is    struck    again,    and    the    BELLMAN 
vanishes.] 


THE  MASQUE  OF  NEWARK 

[The  staff e  is  wholly  enveloped  in  mist,  and  through 
this,  as  the  music  of  the  masque  begins,  fireflies  are 
seen  weaving  a  curious  dance  with  their  lights  in  the 
darkness.  With  the  chorus  of  the  Mist  Spirits,  the 
stage  is  gradually  lighted,  disclosing  the  dance  of  the 
Mists.'] 

CHORUS 

Mists  of  the  night  and  morning, 
Drifting  and  billowing  low, 
Marsh  lights  aglow  and  the  watery  moon, 
And  the  rose  on  the  crests  in  the  dawning. 

54 


POETRY  OF  THE  PAGEANT 

Green  of  the  spring  in  the  meadows 
Lifting  along  by  the  lea, 
Grasses  that  veil  the  rim  of  the  dune 
Where  the  sky  comes  down  to  the  sea. 

Flowers  of  the  marsh  on  the  sea  wind, 
Fragrantly  blown  to  the  east, 
Sweet  with  the  smokes  of  the  springtide 
When  the  snows  and  the  storms  have  ceased. 

Over  the  waters  the  singing, 
The  lights  and  the  magical  rose — 
Mists  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
And  the  flowers  in  the  veil  of  the  snows. 

[Enter  the  PURITAN  SPIRIT.] 

THE  WATCHER 

Behold,  O  Spirit,  she  who  cometh  forth — 
The  soul  of  thy  city. 

[As  the  CHORUS  sings,  NEWARK,  figured  as  a 
majestic  woman  in  garb  of  violet  and  gold,  borne  aloft 
in  a  great  throne,  enters  from  the  gateway.  She  is 
attended  by  her  Herald,  Law,  Church,  and  the  Civic 
Virtues  in  stately  attire.] 

CHORUS 

Behold,  the  gates  swing  wide! 
Behold,  the  banners  in  air! 

55 


POETRY  OF  THE  PAGEANT 

She  comes,  aloft  on  the  tide 
She  comes  as  a  queen  would  fare; 
Forth  to  the  call  of  the  voice, 
Forth  to  the  night  and  the  stars, 
A  crown  on  her  red  gold  hair: 
A  city  to  rise  and  rejoice, 
A  queen — and  her  broidered  state 
Rich  with  high  deeds  and  old  wars, 
A  city,  whose  trumpets  elate 
Proclaim  in  jubilant  blast, 
Proclaim  to  the  hills  and  the  sea 
The  grace  of  the  years  that  are  past, 
The  glory  of  years  to  be, 

THE  PURITAN  SPIRIT 

And  Life  will  break  and  change  eternal  things 

If  the  soul  be  not  steadfast. 

Hark,  City,  to  my  word.     I  set  thee  here. 

I  chose  this  land ;  I  toiled  through  exiled  days 

And  nights  of  tyranny  for  thee.     And  lo, 

I  charge  thee,  where  I  strike  this  rock  to  flame, 

Be  thou  its  guardian. 

[He  strikes  the  altar  with  his  staff  and  fire  appears.] 

Newark,  remember,  thou  art  dedicate 
To  the  high  trust  of  an  enduring  faith 
To  rule  by  them  in  whom  my  spirit  dwells, 
To  be  a  refuge  from  idolatries. 

56 


POETRY  OF  THE  PAGEANT 

Let  not  thy  gates  stand  open  to  the  world 
And  all  the  world's  unholiness.     Let  those 
Who  kneel  not,  pray  not  as  I  pray,  depart. 
Let  thy  looms  weave  not  vanities,  thy  forges 
Spend  not  their  heat  on  unregenerate  steel. 
Be  of  one  faith,  one  heart — one  love  and  law, 
And  keep  upon  this  altar  stone  my  fire 
And  in  thy  heart  my  counsels.     For  I  pass 
Within  thy  gates  as  one  who  seeks  his  home. 
Newark,  remember! 

THE  WATCHER 

Too  stern  a  law  will  break  itself.     The  years 
Are  filled  with  life  that  changes.     Look  on  them. 
Take  counsel  with  their  voices,  and  distil 
Out  of  their  fruitage  a  more  tolerant  fire, 
That  flutters  in  the  wind  of  time,  but  dies  not. 

[As  he  speaks  a  ghostly  procession  appears  before 
Newark  and  the  Puritan  Spirit — a  procession  of  the 
Years  of  Newark.  Some  of  them  are  figures  of  grace 
and  dignity,  from  childhood  to  old  age;  and  many  are 
the  great  souls  who  in  the  past  have  enriched  the  City's 
life,  the  Founders,  the  Patriots,  the  Nourishers  of 
growth  and  wonder.  As  the  years  pass,  their  march 
reflecting  its  stately  measure  in  the  placid  waters,  the 
CHORUS  is  heard.'} 


57 


POETRY  OF  THE  PAGEANT 

CHORUS 

The  tread  of  the  years  is  a  solemn  tread, 

Slowly  they  pass, 
And  their  faces  the  waters  mirror  back 

As  a  maid's  in  a  glass. 

A  child  of  the  years  is  a  city's  life, 

Changing  and  growing, 
And  the  faces  of  all  her  dreamers  live, 

Dreaming  and  glowing; 

The  dreamers  and  masters  of  dreams  go  by 

In  glory  and  pity; 
These  are  thine — ghosts  of  thy  glory — 

Look  up,  O  City. 

For  the  fire  will  rise  and  the  spring  will  bloom 

When  the  heart  is  wise, 
And  the  years  as  they  pass  are  filled  with  dreams 

As  with  stars  the  skies. 

[The  Processional  passes  from  sight  J\ 

THE  PURITAN  SPIRIT 

I  yield  me,  Watcher,  to  the  living  world, 
And  to  the  mighty  memories  by  these 
Brought  home.     I  see  my  city  richer  for 
Their  high  traditions  and  immortal  names. 
I  call — and  now  at  last  I  trust.     I  lift 
Mine  eyes  to  welcome  Liberty. 

58 


POETRY  OF  THE  PAGEANT 

[Music;  LIBERTY  enters,  followed  by  a  train  of  the 
spirits  of  primeval  beauty  who  at  the  opening  of  the 
Masque  were  banished  by  the  PURITAN.  LIBERTY 
approaches  NEWARK;  the  groups  of  the  Nations  and 
Industries  kneel;  she  touches  NEWARK'S  hands  and 
lips  as  though  with  some  mysterious  incantation. 
NEWARK  rises,  the  grayness  of  her  desolation  falling 
from  her  as  a  cloak.  She  stands  forward  between 
LIBERTY  and  the  PURITAN  SPIRIT.] 

NEWARK 

Rejoice,  O  ye  who  call  my  walls  your  home. 

Our  fathers  stablished  toil  and  love  and  faith; 

The  years  have  brought  us  light  and  Liberty ; 

The  nations  sent  us  from  their  mightiest  souls 

Their  dreams  and  triumphs.     Now  the  tide  is  flood. 

Now  stand  I  at  the  peak  of  this  my  life, 

Look  back  with  pride,  look  forward  with  high  heart, 

And  lift  my  voice  with  yours,  articulate. 

Rejoice!     Proclaim  to-night  my  golden  hour: 

Lift  to  the  stars  your  songs  of  festival. 

CHORUS 

All  hail !     Fair  City  in  fame, 
All  hail!     To  Newark's  mighty  name. 
The  golden  shafts  of  morning  strike  the  spires 
Above  the  mists  with  reverential  fires ; 
Let  all  the  sails  of  all  the  world 

59 


POETRY  OF  THE  PAGEANT 

In  thy  deep  harbor  be  unfurled. 
All  hail!     Fair  city  high  in  fame. 

To  thee,  O  City  dedicate 
To  God  and  Truth,  we  come  in  state! 
Hail,  proud  spirit  of  Newark — hail 
City  of  faith  and  liberty! 

Look  now  upon  thine  onward  years  and  raise 
Thy  heart  and  voice  in  prayer  and  praise. 
O  Newark,  lift  thy  crowned  head  in  pride 
Remembering  those  who  served  thee  ere  they  died! 

[The  nations  pass  before  NEWARK  in  processional.] 

Accept  thine  homage,  Newark,  free, 

From  all  the  nations, 

From  all  the  nations, 

Homage  from  nations  leal  to  thee. 

All  hail !     Fair  City  high  in  fame, 

All  hail!     To  Newark's  mighty  name. 

The  golden  shafts  of  morning  strike  thy  spires 

Above  the  mists  with  reverential  fires ; 

Let  all  the  sails  of  all  the  world 

In  thy  deep  harbor  be  unfurled. 

All  hail!     Fair  city  high  in  fame. 

[The   lights  sink  as  the  mists  again  rise,  and  the 
Pageant  disappears.^ 

60 


THE  PRIZE  POEMS 


FIRST  PRIZE  POEM 
THE  SMITHY  OF  GOD 

Author — Clement  Wood,  New  York  City 
Nom  de  plume — Vulcan  Smith 
Entry  136;  Percentage  675 

A   CHANT 

I 

[A  bold,  masculine  chant.] 

I  am  Newark,  forger  of  men, 

Forger  of  men,  forger  of  men — 

Here  at  a  smithy  God  wrought,  and  flung 

Earthward,  down  to  this  rolling  shore, 

God's  mighty  hammer  I  have  swung, 

With  crushing  blows  that  thunder  and  roar, 

And  delicate  taps,  whose  echoes  have  rung 

Softly  to  heaven  and  back  again  ; 

Here  I  labor,  forging  men. 

Out  of  my  smithy's  smouldering  hole, 

As  I  forge  a  body  and  mould  a  soul, 

The  jangling  clangors  ripplewise  roll. 

63 


THE  SMITHY  OF  GOD 

[The  voice  suggests  the  noises  of  the  city.] 

Clang,  as  a  hundred  thousand  feet 
Tap-tap-tap  down  the  morning  street, 
And  into  the  mills  and  factories  pour, 
Like  a  narrowed  river's  breathing  roar. 

Clang,  as  two  thousand  whistles  scream 
Their  seven-in-the-morning's  burst  of  steam, 
Brass-throated  Sirens,  calling  folk 
To  the  perilous  breakers  of  din  and  smoke. 
Clang,  as  ten  thousand  vast  machines 
Pound  and  pound,  in  their  pulsed  routines, 
Throbbing  and  stunning,  with  deafening  beat, 
The  tiny  humans  lost  at  their  feet. 

Clang,  and  the  whistle  and  whirr  of  trains, 
Rattle  of  ships  unleased  of  their  chains, 
Fire-gongs,  horse-trucks'  jolts  and  jars, 
Traffic-calls,  milk-carts,  droning  cars  .  .  . 

[A  softer  strain.] 

Clang,  and  a  softer  shiver  of  noise 
As  school-bells  summon  the  girls  and  boys; 
And  a  mellower  tone,  as  the  churches  ring 
A  people's  reverent  worshipping. 

[Still  more  softly  and  drowsily,  the  last  line  whis 
pered] 

64 


THE  SMITHY  OF  GOD 

Clang,  and  clang,  and  clang,  and  clang, 

Till  a  hundred  thousand  tired  feet 

Drag-drag-drag  down  the  evening  street, 

And  gleaming  the  myriad  street-lights  hang; 

The  far  night-noises  dwindle  and  hush, 

The  city  quiets  its  homing  rush ; 

The  stars  glow  forth  with  a  silent  sweep, 

As   hammer   and   hammered   drowse   asleep  .  .  . 

Softly  I  sing  to  heaven  again, 

I  am  Newark,  forger  of  men, 

Forger  of  men,  forger  of  men. 

II 

[Antichorus,  with  restrained  bitterness,  and  notes  of 
wailing  and  sorrow.'] 

You  are  Newark,  forger  of  men, 
Forger  of  men,  forger  of  men  .  .  . 
You  take  God's  children,  and  forge  a  race 
Unhuman,  exhibiting  hardly  a  trace 
Of  Him  and  His  loveliness  in  their  face. 
Counterfeiting  his  gold  with  brass, 
Blanching  the  roses,  scorching  the  grass, 
Filling  with  hatred  and  greed  the  whole, 
Shrivelling  the  body,  withering  the  soul. 

What  have  you  done  with  the  lift  of  youth, 
As  they  bend  in  the  mill,  and  bend  in  the  mill? 
Where  have  you  hidden  beauty  and  truth, 
6s 


THE  SMITHY  OF  GOD 

As  they  bend  in  the  mill? 

Where  is  the  spirit  seeking  the  sky, 

As  they  stumble  and  fall,  stumble  and  fall? 

What  is  life,  if  the  spirit  die, 

As  they  stumble  and  fall? 

[With  bitter  resignation.'] 

Clang,  and  the  strokes  of  your  hammer  grind 

Body  and  spirit,  courage  and  mind ; 

Smith  of  the  devil,  well  may  you  be 

Proud  of  your  ghastly  forgery  ; 

Dare  you  to  speak  to  heaven  again, 

Newark,  Newark,  forger  of  men, 

Forger  of  men,  forger  of  men  ? 

Ill 

[Beginning  quietly,  gathering  certainty.] 

I  am  Newark,  forger  of  men, 
Forger  of  men,  forger  of  men. 
Well  I  know  that  the  metal  must  glow 
With  a  scorching,  searing  heat; 
Well  I  know  that  blood  must  flow, 
And  floods  of  sweat,  and  rivers  of  woe ; 
That  underneath  the  beat 

Of  the  hammer,  the  metal  will  writhe  and  toss; 
That  there  will  be  much  and  much  of  loss 
That  has  to  be  sacrificed, 
66 


THE  SMITHY  OF  GOD 

Before  I  can  forge  body  and  soul 

That  can  stand  erect  and  perfect  and  whole 

In  the  sight  of  Christ. 

[Sadly  and  somberly.] 

My  hammer  is  numb  to  sorrows  and  aches, 
My  hammer  is  blind  to  the  ruin  it  makes, 
My  hammer  is  deaf  to  shriek  and  cry 
That  ring  till  they  startle  water  and  sky. 

And  sometimes  with  me  the  vision  dims 
At  the  sight  of  bent  backs  and  writhing  limbs; 
And  sometimes  I  blindly  err,  and  mistake 
The  perfect  glory  I  must  make. 

[Rising  to  a  song  of  exultant  triumph] 

But  still  I  labor  and  bend  and  toil, 

Shaping  anew  the  stuff  I  spoil; 

And  out  of  the  smothering  din  and  grime 

I  forge  a  city  for  all  time : 

A  city  beautiful  and  clean, 

With  wide  sweet  avenues  of  green, 

With  gracious  homes  and  houses  of  trade, 

Where  souls  as  well  as  things  are  made. 

I  forge  a  people  fit  to  dwell 

Unscathed  in  the  hottest  heart  of  hell, 

And  fit  to  shine,  erect  and  straight, 

When  we  shall  see  His  kingdom  come 

e? 


THE  SMITHY  OF  GOD 

On  earth,  over  all  of  Christendom, — 
And  I  stand  up,  shining  and  great, 
Lord  of  an  unforeseen  estate. 
Then  I  will  cry,  and  clearly  then, 
I  am  Newark,  forger  of  men. 


68 


SECOND  PRIZE  POEM 
THE  CITY  OF  HERITAGE 

Author — Anna  Blake  Mezquida,  San  Francisco,  Cal. 
Nome  de  plume — Anne  Grinfill 
Entry  278;  Percentage  575 

DOWN  where  the  swift  Passaic 
Flows  on  to  the  placid  bay, 
Where  the  marshes  stretch  to  the  restless  sea, 
And  the  green  hills  cling  in  the  mountain's  lee, 
There  the  sad-eyed  Lenni-Lenape 
Unchallenged  held  their  sway. 

Gentlest  of  all  their  neighbors, 

Proud  race  of  the  Delaware, 
They  lived  in  the  land  where  their  fathers  dwelt, 
They  killed  the  game  and  they  cured  the  pelt, 
And  marked  the  blue  in  the  wampum  belt — 

The  purple  and  blue  so  rare. 

When  day  tripped  over  the  meadows 

Fresh  as  a  maiden  trim, 
They  skirted  the  trails  where  the  black  swamps  lie, 

69 


THE  CITY  OF  HERITAGE 

They  notched  the  cedars  to  guide  them  by, 
And  wandered  free  as  the  birds  that  fly 
Beyond  the  river's  rim. 

But  few  were  the  moons  that  silvered 

The  mountain's  hoary  side, 
When  over  the  banks  where  the  waters  foam, 
Over  the  fields  where  they  loved  to  roam, 
Into  the  heart  of  their  forest  home 

They  watched  the  pale-face  stride. 

Unconquered,  and  loath  to  conquer, 

They  hid  the  arrow  and  bow; 
The  mat  was  spread  for  the  honored  guest; 
They  hung  bright  beads  on  the  stranger's  breast, 
And  mutely,  singing,  they  bade  him  rest 

Before  the  camp-fire's  glow. 

The  suns  of  a  hundred  noondays 

Blazed  down  on  river  and  hill, 
And  the  pale-face  walked  in  the  red-man's  land  ; 
A  pious,  fearless  and  strong-souled  band, 
For  home  and  for  country  they  took  their  stand, 

And  served  God  with  a  will. 

Where  the  waters  gleamed  in  splendor, 
And  the  meadows  glistened  green, 
They  founded  a  town  with  an  English  name; 
Their  sternness  shielded  it  like  a  flame, 

70 


THE  CITY  OF  HERITAGE 

And  woe  to  the  creature  of  sloth  or  shame 
Who  dared  let  himself  be  seen! 

They  founded  the  house  of  learning; 

They  built  them  the  place  of  trade; 
They  guarded  their  laws  by  the  force  of  might — 
The  laws  that  they  held  as  a  free  man's  right; 
And  first  to  pray,  they  were  first  to  fight 

When  foemen  stood  arrayed. 

And  staunch  were  their  children's  children, 

Brave  men  of  a  stalwart  breed, 
Who  fought  for  the  land  where  their  fathers  fought, 
And  kept  the  faith  that  was  dearly  bought, 
That  a  brother-man,  in  the  shackles  caught, 

Forever  might  be  freed. 

And  into  the  growing  city 

Poured  German  and  Celt  and  Scot, 
All  seeking  the  land  of  the  sore-oppressed — 
The  land  that  all  free-born  souls  had  blest, 
And  put  of  their  manhood's  brawny  best 

Into  the  melting  pot. 

The  moccasined  feet  have  padded 

Into  the  silence  vast, 

And  the  smoke-stacks  belch  where  the  camp-fires  glowed, 
Yet  the  white  man  reaps  what  the  red  man  sowed, 
For  the  friendliness  to  the  stranger  showed 

Shall  live  while  the  town  shall  last. 
71 


THE  CITY  OF  HERITAGE 

Unfearing,  true  and  sturdy, 

The  Puritan  left  his  mark; 
Though  he  sleeps  beneath  the  grassy  sod, 
Though  a  million  feet  o'er  his  bones  have  trod, 
Yet  he  leaves  his  faith  and  his  love  of  God 

To  light  men  through  the  dark. 

The  soldier's  battles  are  over; 

His  deeds  but  a  written  page! 
Now  the  living  pass  by  his  low  green  tent, 
But  the  patriot  fires  of  a  young  life  spent, 
And  a  country  whole  from  a  country  rent 

He  leaves  to  a  future  age. 

The  toiler  that  strove  and  builded, 

And  into  the  furnace  hurled 
Not  coals  alone,  but  his  hopes  and  dreams, 
Has  lighted  a  beacon  that  ever  gleams, — 
While  ships  that  sail  on  a  hundred  streams 

Shall  bear  his  gifts  to  the  world. 

Then  rise  to  your  heritage,  Newark! 

It  cannot  be  swept  away 
Like  chaff  by  the  sullen  north  winds  blown, 
Or  barren  seed  that  is  lightly  sown, 
For  out  of  the  past  has  the  present  grown — 

The  city  men  love  to-day! 


72 


THIRD  PRIZE  POEM 
NEWARK— 1916 

Author — Albert  E.  Trombly,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 
Nom  de  plume — Edmond  St.  Hilaire 
Entry  262;  Percentage  540 


'"•  VHEY  tell  us  that  your  streets  are  lined  with  trees 

•*•     And  daily  swept,  that  numbered  on  your  rolls 
You  vaunt  of  nigh  a  half  a  million  souls — 
Athens  and  Rome  have  envied  things  like  these! 
But  tell  me — are  they  men  the  stranger  sees 
In  your  great  hive,  men  bent  on  manly  goals? 
And  can  he  find  recorded  on  your  scrolls 
That  hearts  as  well  as  streets  are  cleansed  of  lees? 

And  are  there  in  those  hearts  recesses  shaded 
From  the  hot  turmoil  of  the  dusty  day, 
Where,  shaking  off  the  bonds  that  chafe  and  shackle, 
The  soul  may  enter  in,  dejected,  jaded, 
Forget  the  burden  of  its  old  dismay, 
And  dream  awhile  in  love's  own  tabernacle? 

73 


NEWARK— 19 1 6 
II 

'Tis  not  in  numbers  that  a  city's  great: 
The  population  of  the  Attic  town 
Is  quite  forgotten  now;  but  what  came  down 
Is  Sophocles  portraying  love  and  hate; 
The  life  of  Socrates  and  his  sad  fate ; 
Praxiteles  bidding  marble  smile  or  frown; 
Demosthenes  denouncing  Philip's  crown ; 
And  Plato's  vision  of  the  perfect  state. 

'Tis  not  for  numbers  that  a  town  should  cope: 
For  Babylon,  not  Athens,  follows  then, 
And  Babylon  we  know  but  by  its  fall; 
No,  not  in  numbers  let  us  place  our  hope, 
But  in  the  large  heart  of  the  citizen 
Who  sacrifices  self  to  succor  all. 

Ill 

Who  praises  Athens,  praises  Pericles. 

'Twas  he  who  dreamed  the  Parthenon,  and  drew 

Artist  and  artisan  to  shape  for  you 

The  columns  of  the  temple  and  the  frieze. 

And  merchants  brought  their  wares  from  over-seas; 

And  teachers  gathered  there,  and  statesmen  too; 

And  Phidias  came,  beneath  whose  chisel  grew 

Athena,  perfect  in  her  haughty  ease. 


74 


NEWARK— 19 1 6 

So  must  you  summon  to  your  citadel, 
Men  from  the  fields  and  men  by  visions  led, 
That  each  may  be  the  other's  counterpart. 
For  never  can  we  mortals  fashion  well 
Unless  some  give  us  where  to  lay  the  head, 
While  others  dream  a  refuge  for  the  heart. 


75 


NEWARK 

THE   VOICE   OF  THE   CITY 

SAVERS  COE 

ClangI  Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  Clang! 
Hark  to  the  music  that  the  hammers  beat! 
List  to  the  tramp  of  the  marching  feet! 
See,  where  the  forges  redly  glow! 
This  is  the  song  that  my  children  know — 
Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  Clang! 

Hear  me,  Cities  of  Men: 

I  speak  from  the  fullness  of  years  and  deeds; 

I  speak  with  the  courage  of  dreams  come  true; 

I  thrill  with  the  past  my  fathers  knew; 

I  throb  with  life  as  the  present  speeds; 

I  pant  for  the  future  I  dream  of  anew. 

Hear  me,  Cities  of  Men ! 

First  came  the  Founder  who  fathered  the  dream; 
Then  came  the  settler  who  carried  it  out — 
Merchants  to  barter,  and  traders  to  scheme; 
Churchmen  to  worship,  severe  and  devout; 
Farmers  to  till,  and  lawyers  to  plead; 

76 


NEWARK 

Hunters  to  kill,  and  doctors  to  cure; 

Poets  to  write,  and  critics  to  read ; 

Men  to  be  wealthy,  and  men  to  be  poor. 

These  made  the  city;  I  prospered,  until 

I  outgrew  the  lowland  and  climbed  up  the  hill. 

Then  rose  the  sound  of  the  drum, 
Calling  my  sons  to  the  sword, 
Rollings  its  "Come!  Come!  Come!" 
Striking  the  master-chord: 
"Come!  for  your  country  calls! 
Come  from  the  field  and  town! 
Come  from  the  huts  and  halls! 
Off  with  the  tyrant  Crown ! 
Strike  for  your  homes  and  rights! 
Smite — for  Jehovah  smites!" 
Thus  came  the  sound  of  the  drum, 
Rolling  its  "Come!  Come!  Come!" 

Gladly  I  suffered  and  freely  gave, 

Joyful  I  bled. 

Out  from  my  gates  marched  the  young  and  the  brave; 

Swiftly  they  sped 

To  die  that  the  banner  of  Freedom  might  wave, 

To  rest  unsung  in  a  lonely  grave. 

Honor  my  dead! 

Republic!     Land  of  Liberty! 
Country  of  opportunity! 

77 


NEWARK 

I  felt  the  thrill— 
I  knew  the  zest  of  toil ; 
And  from  the  wild  turmoil 
Fashioned  my  will. 

Success  was  mine,  and  on  the  placid  stream 

Of  civic  growth  I  floated  in  a  dream 

Of  world-wide  commerce.*  All  the  while  I  grew, 

Yet  proudly  wondered  as  the  dream  came  true. 

Then  with  a  crash  came  the  days  of  despair; 
Broken  the  Union,  and  flaming  with  war. 
Sadly  I  rose  to  shoulder  my  share — 
Bravely  my  children  bore  themselves  there. 
Peace  stilled  the  cannons'  roar. 

Now  were  the  welcome  days  of  peace, 

When  slowly  I  prospered  with  steady  increase 

Of  lands  and  wealth  and  pride  and  fame, 

Far  over  the  seas  my  children  came — 

Briton  and  German,  Frenchman  and  Pole, 

From  the  kingdom,  republic,  and  little  enclave; 

Seeking  for  freedom  of  body  and  soul, 

Russian,  Italian,  Irish,  and  Slav. 

All,  all  I  welcomed  with  boisterous  delight; 

They  were  my  sinews,  and  they  are  my  might. 

I  took  them  strangers,  and  made  them  mine  own, 

Flesh  of  my  flesh,  and  bone  of  my  bone. 

They  gave  me  their  labor.     I  to  repay 

78 


NEWARK 

Give  them  myself  in  my  glory  today. 

With  them  is  my  future,  for  they  are  my  past; 

I  am  their  own  to  exalt  or  to  blast. 

Ever  I  peer  ahead; 
Ever  I  dream  again — 

Have  I  been  cleansed  by  pain? 
What  have  I  merited? 
Ever  the  answers  firmly  come; 
Ever  I  hear  my  children's  song, 
Rising  above  the  marching  throng, 
Over  the  engines'  busy  hum. 

Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  Clang! 
Hark  to  the  music  that  the  hammers  beat! 
List  to  the  tramp  of  the  marching  feet! 
See,  where  the  forges  redly  glow! 
This  is  the  song  that  my  children  know — 
Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  Clang!  Clang! 


79 


PURITAN  NEWARK 
KATHERINE  BAKER 

PURITAN  Newark, 
The  Martha  of  cities, 
Careful  and  provident 
Sits  at  her  spindles. 

Down  the  world's  pathways 
Hobo  and  Tsar, 
Shod  by  her  industry, 
Borne  in  her  carriages, 
Jeweled  or  clothed  by  her, 
Pass  without  gratitude. 

Still  her  shrewd  sons, 
Like  their  stern  forebears 
Who  came  from  Connecticut, 
Make  their  religion 
The  gospel  of  usefulness, 
Still  with  their  hymnals 
Wadding  their  guns. 

Jews,  in  her  factories, 
Pollacks  and  Finns  and  Greeks, 
80 


PURITAN  NEWARK 

Sweat  out  new  destinies: 
Wring  from  strange  chemicals 
Lives  for  their  children, 
Wealth  for  the  world. 

Build  for  their  children 
Her  schools  and  her  aqueducts, 
Build  themselves  citizens 
Of  no  mean  city; 
Forge  in  her  foundries 
The  soul  of  America. 

So  when  swift  trains 
Are  rolling  through  Newark, 
Men  at  the  windows  see, 
Far  down  a  busy  street, 
Flash  in  perspective 
The  Goddess  of  Liberty. 


81 


TO  NEWARK 
HANIEL  LONG 

^T^HE  day  a  modern  city  celebrates 

•*•     Her  age,  and  wonders  what  her  life  may  mean, 
Long  dead  philosophers  could  come  to  her, 
Poets  and  scientists  should  throng  to  her, 
And  the  most  noble  thoughts  of  men  and  women 
Alive  and  dead,  should  quicken  in  her  mind. 
The  clouds  and  stars  should  speak,  nor  should  the  fields 
Be  dumb;  and  the  procession  of  the  years 
Should  bring  her  many  a  richly  'broidered  word 
Taken  from  the  loom  of  time. 

What  would  they  say? 

Newark,  the  years  would  bring  the  self-same  words 
They  brought  of  old  to  Baghdad  and  Peking 
And  many  an  elder  city  now  forgotten, 
The  self-same  words  they  bring  to  San  Francisco, 
London,  Berlin ;  for  they  would  say  to  you 
That  though  the  gardens  of  the  distant  past 
Are  fair  in  memory,  and  though  the  dust 
Of  ancient  times  came  to  consummate  flower 
In  many  a  beautifully  bodied  girl 
And  boy,  in  many  a  tender-hearted  woman 
And  stalwart  man,  this  life  of  ours  to-day 

82 


TO  NEWARK 

Is  quite  as  fair,  and  animated  dust 

As  precious.     They  would  say  to  you  that  still 

Apples  of  the  Hesperides  are  bright 

And  waiting  to  be  picked,  and  days  are  fresh, 

And  dogwood  still  is  white  in  early  May. 

And  they  would  say  that  never  any  town 

Was  more  beloved  of  eternity 

Nor  given  a  more  golden  chance.     Newark, 

You  have  the  only  stuff  that  ever  was 

Of  glory,  for  you  have  the  souls  of  men : 

The  dream  of  love  and  justice  which  you  weave 

Out  of  the  faces  in  your  thoroughfares, — 

A  girl-like  sunlight  on  the  tasseled  corn ; 

Beside  her,  eager  with  his  love,  a  youth 

Whose  stride  is  music  and  whose  laugh  is  wine, — 

The  dream  you  weave  of  them,  the  dream  you  weave 

Of  all  your  children  and  their  hopes  and  fears, 

Will  be  a  prophecy  of  time  to  come, 

When,  in  the  wisdom  of  his  ageless  heart, 

Mankind  shall  build  the  City  Beautiful. 


NEWARK 
MINNIE  J.  REYNOLDS 

A  hundred  years  he  slept  beside 
The  meadows  with  their  salty  tide ; 
Without,  the  century  rushed  and  screamed- 
But  still  he  slept,  and  never  dreamed. 

The  bees  buzzed  round  him  where  he  lay; 
The  honied  scent  of  new-mown  hay 
Came  wafted  down  the  village  street — 
Those  hundred  placid  years  to  greet. 

The  second  laggard  century  crept, 
Slow  loitering  on,  and  still  he  slept; 
But  in  his  sleep  he  dreamed  and  stirred — 
And  on  his  lips  a  muttered  word. 

Troubled,  he  turned;  he  vaguely  sighed; 
His  eyes,  half  opened,  saw  the  wide 
Horizons  that,  beyond  his  ken, 
Swept  out  into  the  world  of  men. 

With  shriek  and  shot  and  clangorous  din 
Came  his  third  century  leaping  in; 

84 


NEWARK 

He  sprang  to  meet  it  with  a  roar — 
The  giant  wakes,  to  sleep  no  more. 

By  the  salt  meadows  there  he  stands, 
With  knotted  muscles,  iron  hands, 
And  fills  a  thousand  rushing  keels, 
And  turns  ten  thousand  thousand  wheels. 

He  hurls  the  rushing  trains  afar, 
He  calls  where  distant  peoples  are, 
And  bids  them  work  with  sweating  speed 
His  clamorous  engines  still  to  feed. 

And  islands  in  far  southern  seas 
For  him  denude  their  tropic  trees; 
And  in  the  jungle's  endless  night 
Toil  slaves  to  feed  the  giant's  might. 

His  harvest  field  is  all  the  earth, 
Raw  wealth  he  gleans,  and  gives  it  birth 
In  forms  of  use  for  all  the  world; 
His  flag  of  toil  is  never  furled. 

By  the  salt  meadows  there  he  stands, 
A  giant,  with  his  iron  hands 
Grasping  a  throttle  open  wide — 
And  round  him  sweep  horizons  wide. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  SETH  BOYDEN'S  GIFT 
ALICE  READE  ROUSE 

High  in  the  Square  his  statue  stands, 

INVENTOR  carved  beneath: 
But  he  who  crimsoned  the  lips  of  Spring 

Might  wear  a  Poet's  wreath. 

OLD  Newark  sat  in  its  bosky  streets, 
Tidy  and  prim  and  serene  ; 
Prankt  with  posies  and  orchard  sweets 
To  the  fringe  of  its  marshes  green. 

'Twas  after  the  fighting  of  1812 

Seth  Boyden  came  to  town; 
He'd  licked  the  British, — and  they'd  licked  him, — 

And  he  wanted  to  settle  down. 

Old  Newark  called  to  him  potently, 
Though  none  but  himself  could  hear 

That  clashing  summons  as  it  clanged 
On  his  prophetic  ear: 

None  but  himself  see  that  clean  blue  sky 
With  its  white  little  chubby  clouds, 
86 


SETH  BOYDEN'S  GIFT 

Grimed  with  the  reek  of  his  chimneys  tall, 
Grim  with  his  black  smoke-shrouds. 

"Thou  hast  lent  me  talents  ten,  Lord  God," 

To  his  Maker  deep  he  prayed: 
"An  Thou  prosper  me,  I  will  give  them  back 

Tenfold  increased,"  he  said. 

Long  with  his  cunning  hands  he  wrought, 

Long  with  his  seething  brain, 
That  God  might  not  require  of  him 

His  usury  in  vain. 

He  watched  the  hedgerow'd  village  lanes 
Where  tinkling  cows  browsed  home 

Herded  by  whistling  barefoot  lads, 
Great  thoroughfares  become: 

Stone-paven  streets  where  clicked  the  heels 

In  castanetted  tune 
Of  all  new  Newark's  gentlefolk, 

Shod  with  his  shining  shoon. 

Malleable  to  his  iron  will, 

He  bent  earth's  iron  bars: 
The  lightning  Franklin  had  lured  down, 

He  flashed  back  to  the  stars. 

A  thousand  men  he  kept  at  work, 
A  thousand  ships  at  toil, 

87 


SETH  BOYDEN'S  GIFT 

A  thousand  ways  of  increase  he 
Wrought  out  upon  the  soil. 

At  length  in  life's  cool  afternoon, 
He  paced  his  garden-place: — 

A  garden  dipt  from  Newark's  youth, 
Gay  with  its  old-time  grace. 

Outside  his  gates  he  heard  the  growl 
Of  labor  chained  to  the  wheel, 

The  roar  of  his  captured  genii  bound, 
The  shriek  of  his  tortured  steel. 

He  thought  of  old  Newark's  bosky  streets, 

Tidy  and  prim  and  serene, 
Prankt  with  posies  and  orchard  sweets 

To  the  fringe  of  its  marshes  green. 

He  said:     "I  have  had  my  work  to  do 

Thy  lendings  to  increase, 
Lord  God : — to  pay  Thee  back  Thy  loan 

Before  my  days  should  cease. 

"Now,  ere  my  death-hour  strike,  I  would 

I  might  just  pleasure  Thee! 
Give  Thee  and  Newark  some  quaint  gift 

All  free  from  merchantry." 

Up  from  the  garden-sward  there  breathed 
An  exquisite  bouquet: 
88 


SETH  BOYDEN'S  GIFT 

Fresh,  faint,  and  fragrant  as  a  wine 
For  fairies  on  Mayday. 

And  glancing  down,  Seth  Boyden  saw 

The  wonder  at  his  feet: 
Wild  strawberries  like  elfin  cups 

Brimmed  with  ecstatic  sweet: 

Too  frail  for  aught  save  dryades 

To  taste  with  leafy  lips, 
Yet  aromatic  as  the  juice 

That  Puck  in  secret  sips. 

Seth  Boyden  smiled:  with  careful  skill 

He  culled  the  perfect  plants. 
Through  patient  moons  he  wove  his  spells 

Till  knowledge  conquered  chance. 

He  fed  and  watered,  pruned  and  plucked, 

Till  from  his  garden-sod, 
There  blazed  a  berry  fit  to  feed 

A  hero  or  a  god! 

This  was  the  gift  Seth  Boyden  gave 

To  all  his  world  for  boon; 
That  Heaven  might  smile  and  Newark  feast 

From  April  on  through  June. 

For  the  great  epic  of  his  toil 
Heaped  laurels  are  his  meed: 

89 


SETH  BOYDEN'S  GIFT 

And  garlands  for  the  loveliness 
Of  that  last  lyric  deed. 

High  in  the  Square  his  statue  stands f 
INVENTOR  carved  beneath: 

But  he  who  invented  strawberries, 
Might  wear  a  Poet's  wreath! 


90 


THE  SILENT  MESSAGE 
JAMES  H.  TUCKLEY 

CITY  of  throbbing  wheels  and  marts, 
Where  thrive  all  nations  and  all  arts, 
What  cheer,  what  cheer  brings  in  this  year, 
This  white  commemorative  year? 
Is  there  a  voice  to  reach  men's  hearts  ? 
Old  First's  brown  ancient  spire  alway 
Points  up  from  the  soil 

Where  the  Founders  trod, 
Points  up  from  the  moil 

Where  the  myriads  plod, 
From  the  scenes  of  toil, 

From  the  sacred  sod, 
And  seems  to  say  in  a  silent  way, 
"Remember  God,  remember  God!" 

O  driven  minds,  O  frantic  feet, 
O  surging  throngs  of  shop  and  street, 
Is  ever  hush  upon  your  soul, 
Is  ever  pause,  to  see  life  whole, 
Or  is  this  life,  this  feverish  heat? 
Lone  spokesman  of  an  older  day, 
That  spire,  like  a  ringer  of  faith,  alway 
91 


THE  SILENT  MESSAGE 

Points  up  from  the  soil 

Where  the  Founders  trod, 
Points  up  from  the  moil 

Where  the  myriads  plod, 
From  the  scenes  of  toil, 

From  the  sacred  sod, 
And  seems  to  say  in  a  pleading  way, 
"Remember  God,  remember  God!" 

O  ye  who  seek  with  purblind  sight 
The  frantic  day's  more  frantic  night, 
Wliy  in  your  pleasure  gleam  so  plain 
The  tense  and  pallid  looks  of  pain 
Beneath  the  incandescents  white? 
Lone  spokesman  of  an  older  day, 
Old  First's  dim  looming  spire  alway 
Points  up  from  the  soil 

Where  the  Founders  trod, 
From  the  scenes  of  toil, 

From  the  sacred  sod, 
Points  up  from  the  moil 

Where  the  myriads  plod, 
And  seems  to  say  in  a  warning  way, 
"Remember  God,  remember  God!" 

O  little  shadowy  graveyard  old, 
Where  lie  the  ancient  true  and  bold, 
Are  these,  long  pent  in  dusty  cell, 
The  very  lives  men  loved  so  well, 
92 


THE  SILENT  MESSAGE 

Or  is  this  but  their  bodies'  mould? 
Lone  spokesman  of  an  older  day, 
That  spire,  like  a  finger  of  faith,  alway 
Points  up  from  the  soil 

Where  the  Founders  trod, 
Points  up  from  the  moil 

Where  the  myriads  plod, 
From  the  scenes  of  toil, 

From  the  sacred  sod, 
And  seems  to  say  in  a  hopeful  way, 
"Remember  God,  remember  God!" 


93 


THE  BUILDERS 
BERTON  BRALEY 

NEVER  a  jungle  is  penetrated, 
Never  an  unknown  sea  is  dared, 
Never  adventure  is  consummated, 
Never  a  faint  new  trail  is  fared, 
But  that  some  dreamer  has  had  the  vision 

Which  leads  men  on  to  the  ends  of  earth, 
That  laughs  at  doubting,  and  scorns  derision, 
And  falters  not  at  the  cynic's  mirth. 

So  the  dreamer  dreams,  but  there  follows  after 

The  mighty  epic  of  steel  and  stone, 
When  caison,  scaffold  and  well  and  rafter 

Have  made  a  fact  where  the  dream  was  shown; 
And  so  with  furnace  and  lathe  and  hammer, 

With  blast  that  rumbles  and  shaft  that  gleams, 
Her  factories  crowned  with  a  grimy  glamour, 

Newark  buildeth  the  dreamers'  dreams. 

Where  the  torrent  leaps  with  a  roar  of  thunder, 
Where  the  bridge  is  built  or  the  dam  is  laid, 

Where  the  wet  walled  tunnel  burrows  under 
Mountain,  river  and  palisade, 
94 


THE  BUILDERS 

There  is  Newark's  magic  of  nail  or  girder, 
Of  spikes  and  castings  and  posts  and  beams, 

The  need  and  wants  of  the  world  have  spurred  her, 
Newark — city  that  builds  our  dreams. 

She  has  fashioned  tools  for  the  world's  rough  duty, 

For  the  men  who  dig  and  the  men  that  hew, 
She  has  fashioned  jewels  for  wealth  and  beauty, 

She  has  shod  the  prince  and  the  pauper,  too ; 
So  the  dreamer  dreams,  he's  the  wonder  waker, 

With  soul  that  hungers  and  brain  that  teems, 
But  back  of  him  toils  the  magic-maker, 

Newark — city  that  builds  his  dreams. 


95 


THE  HILLFOLK  SPEAK 
SIMON  BARR 

WE  are  the  gif tless  ones,  the  empty  of  hand, 
Bearing  no  joy  to  you,  miracle  City  rejoicing, 
We  have  no  flowers  for  your  hair,  and  no   flaming 

brand. 

Flagless  the  sky  on  the  hill 
And  the  streets  without  gleam, 
And  the  dawn  and  the  night  are  still, 
Without  song  for  the  voicing; 
There  is  no  song  in  our  hearts,  having  Death  for  a 

dream. 
We  have  not  reared  to  you  statues,  for  the  still  grey 

form  of  sorrow 

Finds  no  place  in  your  streets. 
And  we  cannot  greet  the  sun,  seeing  but  tears, 
And  we  cannot  dance  to  the  morrow, 
For  the  heavy  chains  of  the  years 
Shackle  our  feet. 

We  are  the  giftless  ones,  the  bearers  only  of  prayers. 

Out  of  strange  dreams  we  came, 
Dwellers  on  distant  hills  through  the  myriad  miles  of 
unknowing, 

96 


THE  HILLFOLK  SPEAK 

Bearing  strange  visions  and  yearning  after  a  name — 

Like  a  Star. 

Fleeing  the  jibe  and  the  torment,  the  labor  of  years 

overthrowing, 
We  came  to  the  outstretched  hand  and  the  welcome 

flung  afar, 
We   who   had   dwelt  where  the  night  comes  like  a 

steel-mailed  fist 
And  the  day  like  a  spear. 
And  the  hours  are  dragging  manacles  or  the  lashes  of 

whips. 
We  heard  your  psean  of  greeting  through  the  deadly 

net  of  fear 
And  we  came  to  the  magical  towers  and  the  magical 

flag  in  the  mist 
With  prayers  on  our  lips. 
We  that  have  worn  the  crown  of  thorns, 
Kingless  and  landless  we  came  to  the  land 
Where  all  the  kings  and  worship  erect, 
Even  as  those  who,  fleeing  the  ancient  scorn, 
Came  empty  of  hand, 
And  built  you,  O  wonderful  City,  miracle  decked. 

We  are  giftless,  the  bearer  only  of  prayers. 

We,  too,  have  built  the  city's  walls  and  its  towers, 
Where  there  was  marsh  and  a  silence  now  flares  the 

chorus  of  steel. 

We  fashioned  the  tool  and  the  wheel 

97 


THE  HILLFOLK  SPEAK 

And  breathed  into  them  their  powers. 

We  that  came  empty-handed  have  given  of  hand  and 

soul: 
The  thousand  stacks  we  built  that  strive  like  hands  to 

the  clouds; 

For  every  brick  and  bar  we  have  paid  its  bloody  toll; 
Ours  are  the  living  threads  that  bring  you  strength 

and  light; 

And  force  the  pulse  through  your  streets 
And  the  murmurous  life  of  your  crowds; 
Ours  is  the  golden  stream  and  the  might; 
Ours  is  the  striving,  the  glory  and  the  light; 
Ours  is  the  city  and  ours  is  the  good  thereof — 
It  is  ours — to  its  beauty  we  have  given  more  than 

love! 

Yet   we   are   the   giftless   ones,    the   bearers   only   of 
prayers. 

For  us  are  only  the  ashes,   we  that  have  made  the 

flame; 

To  us  is  flung  but  the  dross,  the  maker  of  gold. 
We  that  have  given  you  power  are  counted  as  fuel 
And  burnt  and  bought  and  sold. 
You  have  wrought  of  our  Hill  a  shame 
And  given  us  houses  like  smudges  on  the  earth. 
Our  day  is  not  of  the  sun  and  the  night  is  cruel 
And  Sorrow  stalks  through  our  houses,  hand  in  hand 

with  Dearth. 

98 


THE  HILLFOLK  SPEAK 

Our  fleeting  lives  are  a  breath,  a  pain  and  a  breath — 
And  ever  we  have  for  our  neighbor,  Death. 

We  are  the  giftless  ones,  listen  and  heed  our  prayers. 

Give  us  a  little  glory  of  all  we  have  made, 

O  miracle  City. 

Give  us  a  little  of  sunlight,  a  little  of  life ; 

Of  all  the  fruit  of  the  years  and  the  centuries'  trade, 

Give  us  a  little  bread ; 

O  give  us  strength  for  the  strife. 

Give  us  a  little  of  pity — 

Before  we  are  dead. 

We  are  the  giftless  ones,  grant  us  our  prayers. 

Give  us,  O  miracle  City,  this  year  of  years, 

Strength  for  your  greater  glory, 

Power  for  greater  height ; 

Give  us  surcease  of  tears, 

Joy  and  joy  in  the  might — 

To  build  your  towers  to  the  sun  and  to  fashion  your 

story 
Of  right! 


99 


TO  A  CITY  SENDING  HIM  ADVER 
TISEMENTS 

EZRA  POUND 

BUT  will  you  do  all  these  things? 
You,  with  your  promises, 
You,  with  your  claims  to  life, 
Will  you  see  fine  things  perish? 
Will  you  always  take  sides  with  the  heavy; 
Will  you,  having  got  the  songs  you  ask  for, 

Choose  only  the  worst,  the  coarsest  ? 
Will  you  choose  flattering  tongues? 

Sforza  .  .  .  Baglione! 
Tyrants,  were  flattered  by  one  renaissance, 

And  will  your  Demos, 
Trying  to  match  the  rest,  do  as  the  rest, 
The  hurrying  other  cities, 
Careless  of  all  that's  quiet, 
Seeing  the  flare,  the  glitter  only? 

Will  you  let  quiet  men 

live  and  continue  among  you. 
Making,  this  one,  a  fane, 
This  one,  a  building; 

Or  this  bedevilled,  casual,  sluggish  fellow 
100 


TO  A  CITY 

Do,  once  in  a  life,  the  single  perfect  poem, 
And  let  him  go  unstoned? 

Are  you  alone?     Others  make  talk 

and  chatter  about  their  promises, 
Others  have  fooled  me  when  I  sought  the  soul. 
And  your  white  slender  neighbor, 

a  queen  of  cities, 

A  queen  ignorant,  can  you  outstrip  her; 
Can  you  be  you,  say, 
As  Pavia's  Pavia 

And  not  Milan  swelling  and  being  modern 
despite  her  enormous  treasure? 

If  each  Italian  city  is  herself, 

Each  with  a  form,  light,  character, 
To  love  and  hate  one,  and  be  loved  and  hated, 

never  a  blank,  a  wall,  a  nullity  ; 
Can  you,  Newark,  be  thus, 

setting  a  fashion 
But  little  known  in  our  land? 

The  rhetoricians 

Will  tell  you  as  much.     Can  you  achieve  it? 
You  ask  for  immortality,  you  offer  a  price  for  it, 
a  price,  a  prize,  and  honour? 

You  ask  a  life,  a  life's  skill, 

bent  to  the  shackle, 
bent  to  implant  a  soul 
in  your  tick  commerce? 
101 


TO  A  CITY 

Or  the  God's  foot 
struck  on  your  shoulder 

effortless, 
being  invoked,  properly  called, 

invited  ? 
I  throw  down  his  ten  words, 

and  we  are  immortal? 

In  all  your  hundreds  of  thousands 

who  will  know  this ; 

Who  will  see  the  God's  foot, 

who  catch  the  glitter, 

The  silvery  heel  of  Apollo  ; 

who  know  the  oblation 

Accepted,  heard  in  the  lasting  realm? 

If  your  professors,  mayors,  judges  .  .  .    ? 

Reader,  we  think  not  .  .  . 
Some  more  loud-mouthed  fellow, 

slamming  a  bigger  drum, 
Some  fellow  rhyming  and  roaring, 

Some  more  obsequious  back, 
Will  receive  their  purple, 

be  the  town's  bard, 
Be  ten  days  hailed  as  immortal, 
But  you  will  die  or  live 
By  the  silvery  heel  of  Apollo. 


102 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  CITY 

EDWARD  N.  TEALL 
(NEWARK:     1666-1916) 

WRITE  a  poem  of  Newark?     I   think  you  arc 
mad! 

What  is  there  poetic  in  Newark? 
For  Pegasus,  what  has  Newark  but  the  pound? 
Suppose  Homer  sang  at  the  Four  Corners ! 
Newark  might  pity  his  beard  and  blindness, 
But  as  for  his  verses — Poof! 

If  a  poet  walked  through  Broad  Street, 

Newark  would  laugh  at  his  long  hair, 

Newark  would  jeer  and  jibe, 

And  in  the  end  kill  him  with  disregard  more  cruel 

than  scorn  or  the  flung  stone, 
Or  spew  him  out  of  the  corporate  urban  mouth. 

Write  a  poem  of  Newark? 

Write  a  poem  of  the  stomach  ache, 
A  poem  of  a  droning  beehive! 
Hammer  out  words  to  fit  the  strident  cacophonies 
103 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  CITY 

Wrung  by  some  exiled  son  of  Italy 

Out  of  a  box  on  wheels 

With  wheezy  bellows  in  its  bowels 

And  the  meter  regulated  by  a  handle  on  a  crank  shaft. 

Would  not  that  be  the  music  of  an  American  city? 

Still!     Milton  wrote  of  a  beehive, 

"As  when  in  Spring  the  sun  with  Taurus  rides," 

You  know  those  lines  of  limpid  melody. 

(John  Milton  was  nobody's  fool — 

When  it  came  to  smiting  the  lyre.) 

Are  humans  less  usable  stuff 
Of  poetry  than  apis? 

And  others  have  spun  music  out  of  their  inward  pains, 

Wrung  vocal  harmonies  from  physical  discords — 

And  a  stomach  ache  is  not  less  a  part 

Of  man's  grotesquely  constituted  being 

Than  are  those  maladies  of  soul 

Whose  treatment  made  the  Tragedist  of  Avon  great! 

And  a  city  of  America 

In  this  conglomerate  era 

Is  a  huge  and  writhing  indigestion. 


There  must  be  poetry  in  it! 
Celebrate  the  years  of  Newark? 
104 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  CITY 

What  is  a  year,  that  number  it, 
Name  it  as  we  do  the  new  baby, 
Or  Newark's  new  hotel — 
As  Robert  Treat  had  in  a  name 
Identity  distinct? 

A  year  is  so  much  growth? 

So  many  new  houses,  new  babies, 

New  methods  in  your  mills, 

So  many  sprouting  tombstones  in  your  graveyards, 

So  many  new  voices  in  your  pulpits, 

New  faces  (sealed  with  wax  of  hypocrite  polite  atten 
tion)  in  the  pews; 

So  many  new  streets  laid  open 

(Gashing  and  scarring  the  ancient  hUls  and  fertile 
fields)  — 

So  many  new  names  entered  on  the  baptismal  record 
(or  the  station-house  blotter), 

So  many  more  minted  dollars 

In  municipal  coffers 

(Or  sidetracked  into  political  pockets)  — 

So  many  suburbs  ingurgitated? 

But  if  the  Founders  could  return, 
We  would  read 
In  their  city 
A  Poem! 

The  steel  cars, 

The  tracks  in  the  streets 

105 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  CITY 

And  high  powered,  soft  cushioned  limousines,  jugger 
nauts  of  swift  moving  pleasure; 
The  crowds  on  the  pave,  some  in  haste 
And  some  richer  in  leisure  than  purpose 
And  staring  with  insolence  at  their  betters 
Or  idly  in  at  the  rich  display  in  shop  windows; 
The  little  group  of  Salvation  Army  heroes; 
Your  markets,  unresting,  where  consumer  hunts 
Like  a  Daniel  Boone  of  the  new  time; 
Your  railroads,  that  bear  from  afar 
The  wheat  and  rich  fruits  to  fill  you, 
And  rough  ores  and  lumber  and  leather 
To  glut  greedy  maws  of  machinery 
Finishing  wares  to  go  back  through  the  land, 
Spreading  the  proclamation  that  goods 
Made  in  Newark 
Are  best — 

Your  homes  multitudinous, 
Prosperous,  happy, 
Or  clouded  with  pains  of  the  body 
Or  shadows  of  sin  in  the  soul — 
Your  turrets  that  gleam  in  the  sun  blaze, 
Your  offices,  schoolrooms  and  bookrooms, 
Hospital  wards  and  museums, 

Here  is  the  stuff  of  your  life ! 

Here  are  the  sources  deep  hidden 
Whence  rills  of  influence  issue 

106 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  CITY 

To  merge  with  the  current,  broad  bosomed  and  laden 

with  argosies — 

Not  of  commodity  commerce  only  or  mainly, 
But  deep  draughted,  hull  full  of  Newark, 
Weighted  and  freighted  till  Phimsoll  marks  vanish, 
Immersed  in  life's  waters  yet  onwardly  moving — 
The  stream  of  the  Spirit  of  Newark, 
Proclaiming  her  kin  to  the  common, 
Yet  making  her  Newark,  none  other! 

I  say  to  you,  seeing  this  vision, 

That  he  who  shall  take  up  your  challenge, 

Having  the  soul  of  the  poet — 

He  who  shall  see  you  just  as  you  are 

And  clothe  you  splendidly  in  words, 

Shall  be  filled  with  the  breathing  of  music 

And  vibrantly  utter 

The  soul  that  is  in  thee, 

In  Newark! 

And  ye  have  done  well  to  hang  harps  in  the  wind. 


107 


OTHER  NEWARK  ANNIVERSARY 
POEMS 

GRAVE  AND  GAY 


A  SONG  OF  CITIES 

BABYLON  and  Nineveh 
Ephesus  and  Tyre, — 
These  were  names  to  thrill  us  once, 
Seeing,  as  we  read, 
Wall  and  gate  and  citadel, 
Golden  dome  and  spire, — 
All  the  glory  that  youth  sees 
O'er  the  dust  and  dead. 

Cities  of  the  lordly  names: 
Sybaris,  Damascus; 
Doubtless,  too,  their  little  lads 
Dreaming  as  we  dreamed, 
Visioned  older  cities  still, 
Far  as  ever  theirs  from  us, 
Cities  that  their  Grandsires  built 
With  words  that  glowed  and  gleamed. 

Babylon  and  Nineveh, 
Troy  Town  and  Rome, 
Little  did  we  think  one  day, 
Until  we  wandered  far, 
How  dearer  and  more  dreamed  of 
in 


A  SONG  OF  CITIES 

The  city  of  our  home, — 
The  commonplace,  gray  city 
Where  yet  our  treasures  are. 

Bagdad  and  Carthage 

Sybaris,  Damascus, 

Babylon  and  Nineveh, 

Troy  Town  and  Rome : 

You  may  hold  my  fancy  still, 

Great  names  and  glorious; 

But  O,  my  commonplace,  gray  town, 

'Tis  here  my  heart  comes  home. 

— Theodosia  Garrison. 


112 


NEWARK'S  MORNING  SONG 

AT  morn  she  rises  early,  as  a  busy  city  should 
That  spends  the  hours  of  daylight  in  the  game  of 
"Making  Good." 

Across  the  misty  meadows  she  watches  for  the  sun, 

For  worlds  of  work  are  waiting,  and  there's  wonders 
to  be  done. 

She  takes  a  bit  of  breakfast,  she  dons  her  gingham 
frock, 

Then  sits  before  her  keyboard,  with  her  eyes  upon  the 
clock; 

And  when  the  hands  point  seven,  then  loud  and  joy 
fully 

She  plays  her  morning  anthem  on  her  steam  calliope. 

From  Belleville  down  to  Waverly,   from  Bloomfield 

to  the  Bay, 
She  fills  the  morn  with  music  as  her  chimes  and  sirens 

play. 
The  piping  trebles  start  the  song,  the  tenors  catch  her 

air, 
The  altos  add  their  mellow  notes,  the  brassy  bassos 

blare ; 
Their  thousand  voices  blend  at  last  in  one  great  living 

chord 

113 


NEWARK'S  MORNING  SONG 

Of  toil  and  usefulness  and  peace — a  sound  to  please 

the  Lord! 

Listen,  O  music  lovers;  was  ever  heard,  think  ye, 
A  nobler  tune  than  Newark's  on  her  steam  calliope? 

Now  dawns  a  mighty  era  in  the  tale  of  her  career, 

Now  golden  comes  the  sunrise  of  a  new  and  glorious 
year; 

And,  just  as  in  the  old  days,  her  morning  sirens  call, 

"Up!     Rouse  you  up,  my  children!     There  is  happi 
ness  for  all!" 

Yes,  at  this  New  Year's  advent  her  whistles  fill  the 
morn 

As  sound  of   heralds'   trumpets  when   a  new  world- 
king  is  born; 

And  the  magic  of  her  music  shall  set  the  thousands 
free 

Who  follow  to  the  calling  of  her  steam  calliope! 

— L.  H.  Robbins. 


114 


A  VISION  OF  1916 

THE  bells  rang  music,  but  the  blare 
Of  trumpets  made  Four  Corners  sound 
Like  some  weird  throng.     Such  clamor  there 
The  silent  Training  Place  I  found. 

Vague  shadows  hung  about  the  shrine 
Long  named  Old  Trinity.     Among 
The  trees  where  bending  paths  entwine, 
An  antique  figure  moved  along. 

A  Founder  looked  he,  but  he  said : 
"Call  me  the  Spirit  of  the  Town, 
Among  the  living,  not  the  dead, 
Walk  I  unceasing  up  and  down." 

"Good  Spirit,"  said  I,  "what  bright  cheer 
To  our  fair  city  do  you  bring? 
Spin  us  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
Just  at  the  New  Year's  opening." 

An  ember  kindled  in  his  glance, 
That  soon  shot  forth  prophetic  fire ; 
And  then,  with  fervid  utterance, 
Predictive  spoke  the  ghostly  sire: 


A  VISION  OF  1916 

"The  manes  and  the  stars  foretell 

A  greater  Newark,  till  her  fame 

Resplendent  cast  a  wondrous  spell 

On  land  or  sea,  where  sounds  her  name!" 

Amazed  heard  I  the  gracious  seer, 
Too  good  the  augur  seemed  for  true; 
But  when  I  plead  again  to  hear 
He  turned,  and  waved  his  hand  adieu. 

The  bells  still  carolled,  and  the  gleam 
Of  lights  electric  kissed  the  snow — 
"Perhaps,"  mused  I,  "a  hollow  dream, 
If  not,  let  Newark  prove  it  so." 

— Joseph  Fulford  Folsom. 


116 


MONEY  AND  THE  MUSE 

The  Newarker  for  December  sure  is  a  publication 
de  looks  and  damgood  looks,  too! 

However,  I  disagree.  What  I  had  intended  say 
ing  was  that  I  have  just  read  the  announcement  of 
cash  prize  premiums  for  poetry  and  the  divine  afflatus 
is  moved  to  the  following  outpouring  of  protest. 
Listen : 

AY,  Committee  of  One  Hundred, 

Don't  you  think  that  you  have  blundered 

In  offering  a  prize 
Of  money — earthy  treasure — 
For  an  inspirational  measure 

Lifting  Newark  to  the  skies? 
Will  a  cash  consideration 
Inspire  the  high  elation 

Of  Parnassian  poetry? 
Will  the  food  and  drink  of  Mammon 
Be  anything  but  famine 

To  a  poet's  ecstasy? 
Say,  Committee  of  One  Hundred, 
Notwithstanding  you  have  blundered 

And  deserve  the  Muse's  rod, 
117 


MONEY  AND  THE  MUSE 

I  may  say  to  you  with  feeling, 
Deep,  earnest  and  appealing, 

I'd  love  to  cop  a  portion  of  your  wad!! 

There,  sir,  that  is  poetry  pure  and  undefiled  and 
if  you  wish  to  print  it  in  The  Newarker  as  a  warning, 
or  even  a  hint,  to  other  poets  to  get  out  of  the  way, 
and  give  us  a  chance,  you  may  do  so.  It  is  really  a 
prize  winner  poem,  but  I  am  giving  it  to  you  freely 
for  the  good  of  the  cause ! ! ! 

With  my  best  wishes, 

W.  J.  Lampion. 


118 


TO  NEWARK! 

HAIL,  Newark!     Hail! 
Two  hundred  years  plus  fifty 
Is  to  you  but  growing  time! 
And  you  have  grown!!! 
How  you  have  grown 
Is  wonderfully  shown 
In  what  you  are  to-day, 
Not  counting  what  you  may 
Become  if  but  a  mite 
Of  all  your  promised  greatness 
Is  fulfilled 
As  it  is  billed 
To  do 
For  you! 
Hail,  Newark!     Hail! 

New  Jersey's  biggest  and  her  best, 
Her  fairest  and  her  liveliest, 
Like  wine  and  women, 
You  improve  with  age, 
And  all  the  ways  and  means 
Of  velvet  and  of  jeans, 
Of  brain  and  brawn  engage 
119 


TO  NEWARK! 

To  make  you  greater  still, 

Until, 

Beyond  the  pale 

Of  earthly  progress, 

On  the  spirit  gale 

Is  borne  the  glory  cheer: 

Hail,  Newark!     Hail!!!! 

W..  J.  Lampion. 


120 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 
An  Elegy 

HAIL,  Lincoln,  to  thy  spirit,  upon  this  day, 
Which  saw  thy  birth,  and  saw  in  thee  a  child 
Born  for  a  mission  beautiful,  and  laid, 
Like  the  babe  Jesus,  wrapt  in  lowliness, 
Upon  the  threshold  of  a  shining  year! 

Who  but  his  mother  round  that  little  head 
Glimpsed  the  pale  dawn  of  glory?     Who  but  she 
Dreamed  of  a  wondrous  halo  which  he  wore 
And    trembling   bowed   and   worshipped?     Who   but 

she 

Guessed  all  around  him  angels,  robed  with  awe, 
And  heard  a  whisper  of  seraphs?     Ah,  she  knew! 
Knew  as  a  mother  knows,  without  surprise, 
Her  son  was  born  for  saving  of  the  sad ! 
What  though  on  him  shone  no  discovering  star, 
Were  not  her  eyes,  her  mother-beaming  eyes, 
Yet  fairer  than  the  fairest  orb  in  heaven? 
What  though  to  him  no  pomp  of  pilgrim  kings, 
Adoring,  doffed  the  tribute  of  their  crowns, 
Was  not  her  homage  precious  as  their  gold? 
Thus  with  the  dying  swan's  wild  music,  thrilled 
121 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

With  love's  prophetic  rapture,  she  foresaw 
Him  garmented  with  greatness,  saw  afar 
The  future  kneel  before  him.     Then  a  mist 
Blotted  the  sun  and  blight  fell  on  her  dream, 
And  she  stood  weeping  in  a  lonely  land. 

Bred  in  a  low  place,  lord  of  little  deeds, 

He  learned  to  rule  his  spirit,  and  he  grew 

Like  the  young  oak  with  yearning  for  the  sky. 

Yet  on  his  face  was  sadness,  as  if  grief 

Had  chilled  his  singing  childhood,  ah,  too  soon, 

Or  love  with  her  heart-summer  came  too  late! 

So  with  the  world  he  wrestled  for  his  life 

And  labored  long  in  silence,  his  gaunt  frame 

Knotted  with  secret  agonies;  and  so 

Struggled  through  darkness  upward  till  he  stood, 

Rugged  and  resolute,  a  man  of  men! 

The  South  was  in  his  blood  and  kept  it  warm, 
And  on  his  soul  the  winds  of  all  the  North 
Beat  like  a  storm  of  eagles  at  a  crag 
And  left  him  granite.     Then  to  his  chaste  heart 
The  virgin  West  sang  with  a  siren's  voice 
And  to  her  arms  allured  him,  and  he  gave 
His  deepest  love  and  all  his  loyal  strength. 
Thus  with  austere  devotion  he  foreswore 
Plenty  and  pleasure,  hewing  through  the  wilds 
Brightening  highways,  founding  the  young  state 
Upon  that  rock,  the  liberty  of  law. 

122 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

He  was  a  man,  amid  the  throng  of  men, — 
A  simple  man !     And  though  in  him  was  seen 
A  giant  wrestler,  strong  and  grapple-armed, 
Mighty  in  struggle,  dauntless,  one  that  loomed 
Invincible  in  battles  of  debate, — 
Yet  all  who  knew  him  loved  him,  for  he  hid 
The  hero  with  a  smile,  and  seemed  instead 
Only  a  king  of  kindness,  showing  thus 
Unto  the  proud  the  majesty  of  man, 
How  more  than  king  to  be  a  common  man! 
His  life  was  one  humility,  and  though 
The  heights  were  his,  he  lingered  in  the  vales, 
Yoked  to  a  lowly  service  many  years. 
Then  came  the  call,  the  loud  fierce  upward  call, 
And  while  the  cloudy  battle  closed  around, 
While  Blue  and  Gray  commingled  in  a  mist 
Of  glory, — then  from  his  dare-kindled  eyes 
The  eagle  stared,  unquailing,  and  his  look 
Like  the  resistless  lightning  flashed  and  flamed; 
Yea,  from  his  heart  as  from  a  scabbard  leaped 
The  hero  like  a  sword,  and  with  one  stroke 
Freed  the  last  slave,  and  all  the  sleeping  world 
Woke,  and  with  one  great  voice  of  wonder  cried, 
"This  is  a  Man!" 

He  knew  what  kindest  word 
Would  quicken  hope  and  hearten  the  faint  cause; 
Homespun  his  parables  from  life's  rich  loom, 
Were  logical  as  Nature,  and  he  made 
123 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

His  gentle  wisdom  wiser  with  a  jest, 

While  humor  like  the  laughing  of  the  dawn 

Gleamed  through  the  cloud  that  troubled  his  far  eyes. 

Some  called  him  homely  who  forgot  to  shine, 

Who,  stooped  by  a  vast  burden,  yet  became 

Unto  the  homeless  heart  an  open  home. 

And  as  he  walked  through  dreary  human  ways 

The  sad,  the  poor,  the  lonely  and  the  lost 

Followed  his  form  with  long-pursuing  love, 

And  all  that  saw  him  marveled,  for  they  felt 

That  some  dear  Christ  had  sweetened  all  the  air. 

Then  in  that  towering  moment  when  he  cried, 
"There  are  no  boundaries,"  and  as  he  bade 
Division  cease  and  battle  be  no  more, 
When  all  the  happy,  now  the  nation  saved, 
Bugled  of  triumph,  as  he  breathed  his  calm 
"Let  there  be  peace,"  and  peace  was  over  all, — 
Even  then  he  fell  and  left  us  desolate! 

But  still  he  lives,  for  like  a  banner  of  gold 

His  conquering  name  goes  marching  on  to  God; 

Who  though  he  set  in  darkness  rose  again, 

Yea,  like  the  rising  universal  sun 

Summed  in  one  flame  the  dark-divided  stars, — 

So  on  this  day,  above  him,  where  he  sleeps, 

Over  his  grave,  united,  with  one  grief, 

Lo,  North  and  South  clasp  their  forgetting  hands ! 

— Leonard  Charles  Van  Noppen. 
124 


LINCOLN  STILL  LIVES 

At  almost  any  hour  of  the  day  children  may  be  seen  at 
play  on  Borglum's  statue  of  Lincoln  in  front  of  the  Court 
House  at  Newark. 

THIS  mask  of  bronze  cannot  conceal  his  heart; 
The  lips  once  eloquent  here  speak  again ; 
The  kindly  eyes,  where  tears  were  wont  to  start, 
Look  out  once  more  upon  the  haunts  of  men. 

His  image  fits  no  dim  cathedral  aisle, 
Nor  leafy  shade,  nor  pedestal  upraised, 

But  here,  where  playful  children  rest  a  while 
Upon  his  knees,  whom  all  the  nations  praised. 

Great  in  his  strength,  yet  winsome  as  a  child, 
Quick  to  his  touch  the  childlike  heart  responds, 

As  when  his  mighty  hands,  all  undefiled, 

From   dark-hued   childhood's   limbs   struck  off   the 
bonds. 

O  Death,  unerring  as  your  arrows  be, 

High  as  the  hills  your  hecatombs  of  slain, 
Against  this  Child  of  Immortality, 

O  shame-faced  Death,  you  speed  your  shaft  in  vain. 

— Charles  Mumford. 
12$ 


A  PRAYER 

of  a  Thousand  Christmas  Gifts, 
For  any  hatred  we  have  thought 
And  any  evil  we  have  taught 
Or  any  misery  we  have  wrought, 
Forgive  us,  now. 

God  of  a  Thousand  Christmas  Trees, 
If,  thro'  the  year,  the  wrong  held  sway, 
And  better  deeds  were  cast  away, 
We  pray  Thee,  on  thy  Holy  Day, 
Forgive  us,  now. 

God  of  a  Thousand  Holidays, 

We  humbly  ask  that  we  be  sent 

A  spirit  true  to  good  intent, 

So  Gifts  and  Goodness  may  be  blent  .  .  . 

God  of  the  Yule  Tide,  reign. 

— Henry  Lang  Jenkinson. 


126 


A  CITY  ON  A  HILL 

NEWARK!  to-day  begins  thy  lamp  to  shine 
With  power  high  to  flash  the  distant  peaks 
With  messages  of  hope.     Thy  gladness  speaks, 
And  lo!  a  nation's  soul  is  knit  with  thine: 

A  city  on  a  hill  thou  art,  a  shrine 

Of  homing  pilgrims,  who  afar  the  streaks 

Of  thy  new  dawn  behold — a  dawn  that  breaks 

Prophetic  of  a  day  without  decline: 

Ah!  may  that  gleam  forever  love  reveal, 

That  in  the  common  heart  lives  warm  and  pure, 

And  spends  itself  for  all  humanity; 

And  may  the  dawning  of  a  nobler  weal 

Of  spirit  beauty,  and  of  goodness,  lure 

Our  souls  to  light  and  civic  sanity. 

— Joseph  Fulford  Folsom. 


127 


FROM  THE  SLOPE  OF  THE  ORANGE 
MOUNTAINS 

PALE  pillars  in  the  distance,  the  spires  of  Gotham 
tower, 

The  minarets  of  riches,  the  monument  of  power, 
Rimmed  by  the  darkling  river,  where,  nestled  to  the 

wall, 
To-day's  brave  golden  galleons  await  the  seaward  call. 

Below,  in  nearer  prospect,  the  bulk  of  Newark  lies, 
A  pulsing  heart  of  commerce  bared   broadly   to   the 

skies, 
Low  hang  the  clinging  smoke-clouds,  the  toiling  city's 

crown, 
Above  the  fires  of  Progress  no  tide  of  fate  can  drown. 

A  giant  of  a  city  with  all  a  giant's  soul 
Roused  into  finite  striving  with  grandeur  as  its  goal — 
Before  this  wondrous  vista  I  linger  here  enthralled, 
I  must,  for,  see  my  motor — the  artist  drew  it  stalled. 

— Steuart  M.  Emery. 


128 


A  SPRING  SONG 

IS  it  wrong  for  the  thrush  to  sing? 
Can  the  crocus  keep  back  its  bloom? 
And  shall  not  a  soul  that  feels  the  Spring 
Break  forth  from  its  house  of  gloom? 

O  passionate  heart,  be  strong! 

Thou  wert  made,  like  the  birds  and  the  flowers, 
For  music  and  fragrance  the  whole  day  long 

In  the  April  light  and  showers. 

To  every  one  it  is  given 

To  love,  and  to  hope,  and  to  do; 
There's  never  a  power  on  earth  or  in  Heaven 

Can  throttle  a  soul  that  is  true. 

— Lyman  Whitney  Allen. 


129 


REMINISCENCE 

ONE  morning  at  three  o'clock 
I   stood  on   the  corner  of   Broad  and   Market, 

Newark. 
I  had  come  from  New  York ;  I  was  going  to  my  home 

in  Glen  Ridge. 
I  stood  and  waited   for  the  Bloomfield  Avenue  car. 

The  night 
Was  cool  and  pleasant,  and  I  enjoyed  the  sight  of  the 

boys 

Selling  the  morning  papers;  although  I  now  confess 
To  the  thought  that  I  had  about  those  boys.     I  thought 
That  they  ought  to  be  in 

Bed.     Every  boy  ought  to  be  in  bed  at  that  hour.     Yet 
Here  in  America,  we  countenance  such  things.     We 
Have  a  lot  to  learn,  here  in  America.     At  that  moment 
I  viewed  Newark  in   the  light  of  a   rising  day.     It 

seemed 
To   me  that   a  vision  of   the  future  projected   itself 

across  the 
Sky.     There  was  so  much  life  going  on  even  then — 

the  full 
Abounding  American  life  that  we  see  in  our  cities,  with 

all  their 

130 


REMINISCENCE 

Suffering  and  crime  and  injustice  and  marvelous  energy. 
My  friend,  has  the  thought  ever  come  to  you  at  night, 
In  some  large  city,  as  you  looked  up  at  the  stars 
And  viewed  the  majesty  of  God,  that 
That  same  majesty  is  forever  visioned  in  the  faces  of 

the  common 
Crowd?     Think  then  of  the  radiance  of  honesty,  of 

perseverance, 

Of  dumb  waiting  for  better  things,  of  the  glory  of  self- 
denial,  of  the 
Sharing-spirit.     Think   of    that,    brother,    and    incline 

thine 

Head  humbly  to  the  majesty  of  the  Eternal 
Law.     The  car  came,  and  I  stood  up  all  the  way  home, 

but 
I  was  glad  that  I  had  seen  Newark  on  that  night.     It 

gave  me  a  belief  in  its 

Destiny,  an  abiding  faith  in  its  promise  to  fulfil 
Its  mission.     I  say  this,  knowing  the  grief  in 
Homes,  the  patience  and  resignation  under  the  ban 
Of  toiling  humanity.     For  out  of  the 
Light  of  the  coming  day  there  is  a  something, 
A  Something  that  tells  me  that,  as  Browning  says, 
God  is  in  his  Heaven  and  all's  right  with  the  world, 
And  Newark. 

— Thomas  L.  Masson. 

Mr.  Masson  is  an  editor  on  Life.  He  is  the  author  of  much 
humorous  verse  and  many  essays.  He  lives  in  New  Jersey 
and  loves  Newark. 


ATTENTION,  PLEASE:  HERE'S  COL.  BILL 
LAMPTON  AGAIN 

FOUND — Our  friend  and  assistant  poet,  Col.  Bill 
Lampton,  in  church,  asleep  at  sermon  time,  dream 
ing  of  the  Greater  Newark  that  is  to  follow  our  Cele 
bration. 

We  ran  a  lost  ad  in  the  March  Newarker  and,  lo! 
there  was  Bill  in  the  next  mail,  cussing  like  the  man 
in  Kansas  who  couldn't  sleep  until  he  had  gone  out 
and  called  the  pump  the  choicest  names  in  the  Kaiser's 
calendar.  Cussing  us,  the  Colonel  mused: 

You  gentle  gorgonzola  cub, 

You  melancholy  tramp! 

S'pose  Col'nel  Bill  should  grab  a  club 

And  blink  your  bloomin'  lamp ! 

You  can  plainly  see  what  we  would  never  see  if  Bill 
had  reached  our  May-grey  optics  with  his  Kentucky 
club.  These  Southern  gentlemen  have  a  temper  pre 
served  in  alcohell.  They  light  their  cigars  with  it  in 
the  wind.  They  are,  withal,  very  polite;  the  madder 
the  politer,  like  our  friend  and  preceptor  in  Maryland, 
who  wrote  to  his  raging  creditor: 

132 


COL.  BILL  LAMPTON 

Suh: 

As  my  stenographer  is  a  lady  and  I  am  a  gentleman, 
I  cannot  dictate  the  precise  form  of  my  contempt  for 
youh.  But,  suh,  as  you  are  neither,  youh  will  under 
stand!  — MAJOR  BUNEVITABLE  BIFF. 

However,  Col.  Bill's  apology  is  accepted.  His  alibi 
will  be  duly  considered  when  he  visits  Newark  to  smile 
upon  the  legends  on  the  pylons.  That  sounds  like 
medicine,  but  it  isn't.  It's  just  legends  on  the  pylons — 
as  before. 

We  had  to  write  the  foregoing  to  prepare  our  readers 
for  the  terrible  stuff  Bill  wrote  to  the  plumbing  editor 
of  The  Newarker.  Here  it  is,  addressed  to  "You 
Bald-headed  Mom  us  of  the  Meadows."  Isn't  this  a 
nice  Kentucky  way  of  calling  us  a  Farmer! 

"To  the  Editor  of  The  Newarker: 

SIR:  In  the  March  issue  of  your  obscure  sheet  I 
find  the  following  at  the  bottom  of  the  column: 

LOST — Our  friend  and  assistant  Poet, 
Col.  Bill  Lampton,  with  tawny  rubberset 
whiskers,  last  seen  coming  out  of  a  suit  of 
clothes,  when  we  spent  the  evening  (and  $9) 
with  him  at  a  Manhattan  prayer  meeting. 
Finder  please  telephone  The  Newarker.  All 
other  papers  please  copy. 


133 


COL.  BILL  LAMPTON 

And  while  I  take  peculiar  pleasure  in  stigmatizing 
most  of  it  as  a  scurrilous  slander  and  a  libelous  lambast, 
especially  the  $9,  part  which  was  borrowed  from  me 
on  thus-far  unkept  promises,  I  will  admit  that  I  am 
lost: 

Lost  in  contemplation 

Of  the  wonderful  display 
Of  everything  progressive 

By  the  Newark  of  to-day 
Contrasted  with  the  Newark 

Which  its  founder,  Robert  Treat, 
Considered  such  a  starter 

As  never  could  be  beat. 

Lost  in  admiration 

Of  the  Newarkistic  way 
Of  catching  on  to  progress 

And  of  spreading  a  display 
At  its  coming  Celebration 

As  will  make  its  rivals  rave 
And  the  late  lamented  Robert 

To  turn  over  in  his  grave." 

— W.  J.  Lampton. 


134 


SONNETS 

THE  GUESTS  OF  SHAKESPEARE 

LET  Adoration,  stilled  with  ecstasy, 
Now  rest  in  reverence  a  little  while: 
Mirrored  within  that  nature  versatile, 
Let  Beauty  see  herself  as  others  see; 
Let  the  whole  world  to  Wonder  bend  the  knee, 
And  Sorrow  pause  the  moment  of  a  smile; 
Let  Guilt  be  innocent  of  its  own  guile 
And  Time  be  felt  a  brief  eternity. 

Then  with  the  Master  let  us  feast:  the  Table 
Is  set  with  tempting  Visions;  imps  and  elves 
Shall  be  our  servitors,  and  Fact  and  Fable 
Shall  sing  a  sprightly  duet.     And  thereafter 
Shall  Humor,  guised  as  Falstaff,  by  wise  laughter 
Make  all  the  guests  acquainted  with  themselves. 

TO-MORROW 

To-morrow,  ah  to-morrow!     What  shalt  thou, 
Veiled  daughter  of  thy  Mother  called  "To-day,'* 
Bring  in  thy  hands  of  fortune  or  dismay? 
Shalt  thou  come  with  the  laurel  on  thy  brow 
135 


SONNETS 

Or  with  a  crown  of  thorns?     Shalt  thou  endow 
Eternity  with  some  heroic  lay 
Or  like  a  stern  avenger  come  to  slay? 
Unveil  thy  face.     For  thou  art  poising  now 

In  thy  sure  hand  a  dart  that  shall  send  death 
To  thousands  in  the  instant  of  a  breath ; 
Or  a  great  Day  thou  grandly  dost  prepare 
Where  patience  shall  behold  the  fruit  of  prayer. 
Song  shall  be  heard  or  seen  return  of  sorrow: 
So  moves  the  world  in  silence  towards  To-morrow. 

CATHAY 

I'll  join  a  caravan  to  far  Cathay 
And  ride  upon  a  camel  to  the  moon. 
There  I  shall  tilt  with  emperors  and  soon 
Untriumph  them  of  trophies  which  I'll  lay 
Before  the  Queen  of  Jewels.     I  shall  slay 
Mythical  dragons  there  or  with  a  rune 
Of  wild  enchantment  leave  them  in  a  swoon, 
Bearing  their  treasures,  jade  and  pearls,  away. 

And  I  shall  lead,  to  plunder  in  high  wars, 

Armies  of  images,  and  steal  the  stars. 

The  Pleiades  shall  be  my  Golden  Fleece; 

Orion  be  my  belt;  and  for  a  crown 

I'll  wear  the  sun;  and  palaced  in  white  peace, 

I'll  reign  with  Beauty  in  serene  renown. 


136 


SONNETS 

THE  SARABAND 

The  clink  of  castanets,  the  cadence  wild 

Of  rhythmic  feet  and  swayings  in  the  moon 

Of  whirling  figures  gliding  into  swoon, 

Susurras  languorous,  where  sorrows  mild 

Sob  on  the  breast  of  silence  like  a  child  ; 

Then  with  fierce  tones,  barbaric,  from  that  croon 

Leaps  into  revelry,  a  crimson  tune, 

Trailing  a  troop  of  voices,  that,  beguiled 

By  beauty  into  music,  countermand 

The  measure  to  a  stately  saraband 

Of  Moorish  girls  that  move  with  graceful  motion 

Like  swans  that  swim  upon  a  mimic  ocean: 

Superb  of  form  and  lithe  of  limb,  they  bound, 

Queening  the  revel  to  the  cymbal's  sound. 

— Leonard  Charles  Van  Noppen. 


137 


FATHER  NEWARK 

SWART  with  the  grime  of  his  crafts  are  the  hands 
of  him, 

Corded  his  muscles  with  energy  stark; 
Stately  the  buildings  and  spacious  the  lands  of  him: 

Hall,  fane  and  factory;  meadow  and  park. 
Lofty  his  brow  with  the  pride  of  his  history, 
Kindled  his  eye  with  the  light  of  his  skill; 
Genius  inventive  that  solves  every  mystery; 
Courage  that  wins  by  invincible  will. 

Centuries  two  and  a  half  has  his  story  been — 

Years  crowned  with  triumphs  of  labor  and  lore ; 
Burning  undimmed  has  the  lamp  of  his  glory  been ; 

Open  to  all  men  his  neighborly  door. 
Now  he  is  bidding  us  all  to  rejoice  with  him — 

Sons  of  your  sire,  bound  by  filial  vow, 
Each  of  you  loyally  lift  up  your  voice  with  him; 

Join  in  the  slogan  of  Newark  Knows  How! 

—William  L.  R.  Wurts. 


138 


COL.  BILL  LAMPTON'S  LAMP  STILL 
GLOWS 

JUST  when  we  think  Col.  Bill  Lampton  has  been 
tucked  away  to  sleep,  he  falls  out  of  bed,  makes 
a   noise   like   the   Epithetical   Committee,    and   wakes 
everybody  up — to  laugh. 

"I  can  dream  of  a  Greater  Newark, 
And  dream  with  a  saving  grace 
Which  never  seems 
To  come  to  dreams 
Of  another  time  and  place, 
Because  when  I  dream  of  a  Newark 
Made  greater  by  what  you  do 
In  leading  on 
To  the  glory  dawn, 
I  know  that  my  dream  will  come  true. 

There,  you  diaphanous  distributor  of  discomanotions, 
stick  that  on  your  pylons — do  pylons  grow  wild  in  New 
Jersey? — and  give  your  readers  a  chance  to  judge 
between  a  Poet  and  a  mere  editor." 

— W.  J.  Lampton. 


139 


THE  ALL-SUMMER  CELEBRATION 

NOW  every  day  in  Newark 
Is  a  whooptedooden  day. 
And  every  soul  in  Newark 

Seems  to  rather  like  that  way, 
For  it  keeps  the  circulation 

Circulating,  and  the  blood, 
Mixing  with  the  clay  of  humans, 

Makes  a  living,  lusty  mud, 
Which  is  bound  to  be  so  fertile 

That  for  years  and  years  to  come 
The  growth  of  coming  Newark 

Puts  all  rivals  on  the  bum, 
And  the  Newark  of  the  future 

Is  going  to  be  so  great 
That  New  Jersey  of  the  future 

Will  be  changed  to  Newark  State. 

— W.  J.  Lampton. 


140 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  THE  MASQUE 

THE  lights  are  out;  the  rainbow  pictures  fade; 
Their  magic  beauty  and  their  color-flow 
And  rhythmic  grace  no  eye  again  shall  know; 
'Tis  ended  now,  the  lovely  masquerade, 
And   those  who,   wondering,   looked,   and   those  who 

played, 

Back  to  the  busy  commonplace  they  go, 
To  toiling  life  that  moves  so  dull  and  slow; 
And  silent  darkness  cloaks  the  parkland  glade. 

The  rainbow  pictures  fade;  but  still  there  gleams 
The  rainbow  hope  to  hold  us  to  our  dreams; 
And  lowly  toil  grows  beautiful  and  bright 
As  hearts  urge  forward  to  the  coming  light; 
And  men  in  lifelong  memory  will  see 
The  vision  of  the  city  that  shall  be. 

— L.  H.  Robbins. 


141 


REWARDS 

GEE,  here  am  I— in  hell  at  last. 
^  Experience  through  me  hurtled  fast. 
On  earth  I  worked — while  shirkers  croaked. 
There  I  was  roasted — here  I'm  smoked. 

"Cheer  up!"  Sly  Sycophantis  cried; 
"I  stabbed  you  too — before  you  died!" 


142 


THE  FALLEN  PAGEANT  STAR 

Time:     i  A.  M. 

Temperature:     Just  Freezing. 
Wind  Velocity:    Rooseveltian. 

OH,  if  'twould  only  thaw  upon  this  stage, 
And  cold  raw  winds  would  even  once  abate 
Upon  our  Pageant  shanks  and  unprotected  skins — 
Then  would  our  love  remain — unturned  to  rage 
At  May's  mad  blasts — while  Poet  Tom,  unagitate, 
Gently  megaphones  at  our  dramatic  sins 
And  begs  us  never  mind  the  Arctic  gusts 
That  pneumonize  our  necessary  busts! 

Never  again  shall  our  ambitious  roles  include 
The  part  of  Herald  to  this  gay  old  Town, 
Until  fair  Newark's  thirty-first  of  May 
Shall  be  so  balmy  as  to  singe  the  nude 
In  art — from  sombre  Puritan  to  clown — 
Or  tog  us  up  in  buskins  lined  with  hay. 

And  yet,  that  Civic  Germ  we  would  sustain — 
May  lure  us  out — to  do  our  worst  again. 

— THE  EDITOR. 
Night  of  May  3,  1916. 


MATT'S  JOLLY  PAGEANT  CAR 

/~\UR  red  official  pageant  car  was  something  very 
^^       spry, 

It  had  twelve  years'  experience,  its  spirit  wouldn't  die. 
It  wheezed  in  front  and  sneezed  behind  and  snorted 

ninety  ways, 
In  playing  its  peculiar  parts  in  Newark's  pageant  days. 

Each  day  it  hauled  us  to  the  Park  it  got  us  in  a  fight, 
In  fact,  we  agitated  somewhat  every  bloomin'  night. 
It  hurtled  o'er  the  populace  and  dodged  around  the  cops, 
Then  nimbly  ran  upon  the  hoofs  of  several  hundred 
wops. 

Matt  Stratt,  its  jolly  chauffeur  man,  sat  at  the  wheel 

and  spat 

Into  the  ambient  atmosphere  or  on  a  passing  cat; 
And  just  to  show  that  he  was  Matt,  right  here  and 

there  and  hence 
He   swatted    at   the   Park   Police  and   charged   clean 

through  a  fence. 

One  night  the  car  had  asthma  and  a  kind  of  chest 

disease  ; 

Its  soul  had  gone  to  thunder  in  an  apoplectic  sneeze; 
144 


MATT'S  JOLLY  PAGEANT  CAR 

And  Matt  while  diagnosing  what  was  meant  by  its  new 

whine, 
Declared  that  our  old  pageant  car  had  curvachewing 

spine. 

But  somehow  it  stayed  on  the  job,  much  more  than 

some  had  done 
Who  now  claim  pageant  honors  which  our  workers 

really  won; 

Nor  was  it  pessimistic,  pussyfooting  through  the  town, 
While  howling  down  the  Pageant  with  a  caterwauling 

frown. 

Lor'  bless  that  battered  pageant  car  and  keep  it  on 

the  go. 
Please  doll  it  up  in  brand  new  paint  and  fix  it  up 

below. 
Don't  let  the  scrap  heap  get  it — we've  affection  in  our 

heart! 
For  Stratton's  cheerful  spavined  car  that  nobly  did  its 

part. 

— THE  EDITOR. 


"DIVIDENT  HILL" 

P>AUSE  here,  O  Muse!  that  Fancy's  eye 
•"-       May  trace  the  footprints  still, 
Of  men  that,  centuries  gone  by, 

With  prayer  ordained  this  hill; 
As  lifts  the  misty  veil  of  years, 

Such  visions  here  arise 
As  when  the  glorious  past  appears 

Before  enchanted  eyes. 

I  see,  from  midst  the  faithful  few 

Whose  deeds  yet  live  sublime — 
Whose  guileless  spirits,  brave  as  true, 

Are  models  "for  all  time," 
A  group  upon  this  height  convened — 

In  solemn  prayer  they  stand — 
Men,  on  whose  sturdy  wisdom  leaned 

The  settlers  of  the  land. 

In  mutual  love  the  line  they  trace 
That  will  their  homes  divide, 

And  ever  mark  the  chosen  place 
That  prayer  hath  sanctified; 


"DIVIDENT  HILL" 

And  here  it  stands — a  temple  old, 
Which  crumbling  Time  still  braves; 

Through  ages  have  their  cycles  rolled 
Above  those  patriots'  graves. 

As  Christ  transfigured  on  the  height 

The  three  beheld  with  awe, 
And  near  his  radiant  form,  in  white, 

The  ancient  prophets  saw  ; 
So,  on  this  summit  I  behold 

With  beatific  sight, 
Once  more  our  praying  sires  of  old, 

As  spirits  clothed  in  light. 

A  halo  crowns  the  sacred  hill, 

And  thence  glad  voices  raise 
A  song  that  doth  the  concave  fill — 

Their  prayers  are  turned  to  praise! 
Art  may  not  for  these  saints  of  old 

The  marble  urn  invent ; 
Yet  here  the  Future  shall  behold 

Their  Heaven-built  monument. 

— Mrs.  E.  C.  Kinney. 


CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD 

HERE'S  the  spot.     Look  around  you.     Above  on 
the  height 
Lay  the  Hessians  encamped.     By  the  church  on  the 

right 
Stood   the   gaunt   Jersey   farmers.     And   here   ran    a 

wall. — 

You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you'll  turn  up  a  ball. 
Nothing  more.     Grasses  spring,   waters  run,   flowers 

blow 

Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago. 
Nothing  more  did  I  say?     Stay  one  moment:     You've 

heard 

Of  Caldwell,  the  parson,  who  once  preached  the  Word 
Down  at  Springfield?  What?  No!  Come,  that's 

bad.     Why  he  had 

All  the  Jerseys  aflame.  And  they  gave  him  the  name 
Of  the  "rebel  high  priest."  He  stuck  in  their  gorge, 
For  he  loved  the  Lord  God — and  he  hated  King 

George ! 
He  had  cause,  you  might  say!     When  the  Hessians 

that  day 
Marched  up  with  Knj'phausen  they  stopped  on  their 

way 

148 


CALDWELL  OF  SPRINGFIELD 

At  the  "Farms"  where  his  wife,  with  a  child  in  her 

arms, 

Sat  alone  in  the  house.     How  it  happened  none  knew 
But  God — and  that  one  of  the  hireling  crew 
Who  fired  the  shot!     Enough!     There  she  lay 
And  Caldwell,  the  chaplain,  her  husband  away! 
Did  he  preach — did  he  pray?     Think  of  him  as  you 

stand 

By  the  old  church  to-day;  think  of  him  and  that  band 
Of  militant  plow-boys!     See  the  smoke  and  the  heat 
Of  the  reckless  advance — of  that  struggling  retreat! 
Keep  the  ghost  of  that  wife,  foully  slain,  in  your  view — 
And  what  could  you — what  should  you,  what  would 

you  do? 

Why  just  what  he  did!     They  were  left  in  the  lurch 
For  want  of  more  wadding.     He  ran  to  the  church, 
Broke  the  door,  stripped  the  pews,  and  dashed  out  in 

the  road 
With  his  arms  full  of  hymn-books,  and  threw  down 

his  load 

At  their  feet!     Then  above  all  the  shouting  and  shots 
Rang  his  voice:     "Put  Watts  into  'em,  boys;  give  'em 

Watts." 
And  they  did.     That  is  all.     Grasses  spring,  flowers 

blow 

Pretty  much  as  they  did  ninety-three  years  ago; 
You  may  dig  anywhere  and  you'll  turn  up  a  ball, 
But  not  always  a  hero  like  this — and  that's  all. 

— Bret  Harte. 
149 


NEWARK'S  ACROSTIC 

1666 

Naiad  and  nymph  in  the  forest  are  roaming; 

Everglades  echo  their  unearthly  tread; 

Weird  are  their  songs  and  their  forms  in  the  gloaming; 

Answering  voices  or  shades  of  the  dead. 

Rudely  the  Indian  'neath  wigwam  and  bower 

Kneels  in  submission  to  Ignorance-power. 

1916 

Newark  is  now  in  the  vigor  of  manhood. 
Eye  of  a  Mentor,  and  brain  of  a  State; 
Wielding  a  sceptre  that  banishes  clanhood, 
And  makes  us  all  kith,  and  akin  to  the  great. 
Rugged  the  heights  from  whose  summits  this  hour 
Ken  we  the  vision  that  Knowledge  is  power. 

— Wm.  J.  Marshall. 


150 


THE  NEWARK  CELEBRATION 

NO  man  can  know 
The  greatness  of  the  Show — 
That  is  to  say, 
No  man  to-day 
Can  know 

The  greatness  of  the  Show, 
But  in  the  future  all  the  land 
Will  fully  know  and  understand 
What  Newark,  in  this  year  of  grace, 
Has  done  to  give  herself  a  place 
Among  the  leaders  who  express 
By  deeds  the  meaning  of  success 
Along  all  lines  of  brawn  and  brain 
Which  count  for  best  in  best  of  gain! 
What  has  been  done  these  Summer  days 
Has  moved  the  spirit  that  will  raise 
Conditions,  which  exist  to-day, 
Above  themselves,  and  on  the  way 
To  that  rich  prize  which  energy 
Confers  in  perpetuity. 
No  man  can  know 
The  greatness  of  the  Show 
Until  the  future  brings 


THE  NEWARK  CELEBRATION 

The  harvest  of  those  things 

Which  count  for  greatness, 

Make  the  sum 

And  substance  of  the  good  to  come. 

That  much  is  known, 

That  much  is  shown, 

And  on  this  victory  won, 

The  universal  verdict  is: 

WELL  DONE!  !  ! 

— W.  J.  Lampton. 


152 


THE  BARD'S  COMPLAINT 

1    DREAMED  a  dream  the  other  night 
That  left  all  others  "out  of  sight;" 
Around  the  Kinney  building  surged 
A  mob  of  wild-eyed  men,  who  verged 
On  panic,  if  a  panic  grow 
From  masses  struggling  to  and  fro. 

The  mob  was  decorous  if  wild, 
As  cultured  gentlemen,  beguiled 
By  visions  of  good  things,  though  faint, 
Would  keep  their  hunger  in  restraint, 
Although,  when  appetites  are  keen, 
And  limbs  are  shrunk,  and  ribs  are  lean, 
A  well-filled  board,  in  time  of  need, 
Will  tempt  an  anchorite  to  feed. 

These  men,  who  thus  besieged  the  Kinney, 
(All  far  from  fat,  and  mostly  skinny), 
Though  eager  as  a  hound  in  leash, 
Were  strangely  reticent  of  speech. 
With  well-groomed  men  they  would  not  pass 
For  fashion-plates,  for  they,  alas! 
Were  chiefly  garbed  in  sombre  black, 
153 


THE  BARD'S  COMPLAINT 

Of  cut  and  style  a  decade  back; 
Their  "pants"  (those  of  a  later  pattern) 
Shone  like  the  sun  (the  parts  they  sat  on), 
While  rusty  coats  and  hats  betrayed 
The  pinching  of  the  wearers'  trade. 

One  thing  I'll  say,  and  oft  repeat, 
These  men,  in  dress  so  incomplete, 
For  classic  nobs  could  not  be  beat 
Within  a  league  of  Market  Street. 
Though  seedy  most,  yet  here  and  there 
Was  one  who  looked  quite  debonair; 
"O-ho!"  I  cried  to  one  of  these, 
Who  sauntered  'round,  quite  at  his  ease; 
"Pray  tell  me,"  (for  my  sense  grew  hazy) 
"Have  all  these  gentlemen  gone  crazy?" 
"O,  no,"  he  said:     "Each  one's  a  poet; 
"(Though  all  their  verses  do  not  show  it.) 
"They're  here  because  a  dozen  prizes 
"In  brand-new  bills  of  different  sizes, 
" — One  thousand  plunks  in  all,  I  hear, 
"Though  it  does  sound  a  little  queer — 
"Are  offered  to  the  poets  who 
"Can  put  in  odes  the  best  review 
"Of  Newark's  glorious  career 
"For  this,  her  Anniversary  year. 
"There'll  be  a  ton  of  rhymes,  at  least, 
"For  gods  and  men  a  bounteous  feast." 

154 


THE  BARD'S  COMPLAINT 

"One  thousand— what!"  I  shouted:     "Whew! 
"You're  guying  me;  it  can't  be  true! 
"How  can  some  humble  poets  hope 
"To  get  away  with  so  much  dope?" 

He  said   (and  confidential  grew) : 
"It  is  the  truth  I'm  telling  you; 
"But  bards  are  few  of  either  sex 
"Who  ever  see  a  double  X. 
"Do'st  know  why  poets  fare  so  ill, 
"While  plodding  tradesmen  get  their  fill?" 

I  answered:  "No;  tell  me."     He  said: 

"  'Tis  competition  with  the  dead. 

"The  heroes  of  the  shop  and  plow 

"Have  only  rivals  living  now 

"To  test  their  wits,  while  every  man 

"Who  wrote  in  verse  since  time  began, 

"Is  just  as  much  alive  to-day 

"As  when  he  turned  his  toes  up  (say) 

"Some  forty  centuries  away! 

"You  surely  know  it  is  not  so,  sir, 

"With  your  shoemaker  and  your  grocer! 

"Had  Homer  dealt  in  ducks  and  geese, 

"His  fame  long  since  had  found  surcease. 

"Could  eggs  of  Virgil's  day  compete 

"With  fresh-laid  eggs  on  Commerce  Street? 

"Yet  fresh-laid  poets  of  to-day 

"Find  ancient  bards  blockade  their  way!" 

155 


THE  BARD'S  COMPLAINT 

Just  then  the  crowd  thinned  out ;  a  few 
Received  their  checks;  the  rest  withdrew 
To  brush  their  threadbare  coats  anew. 

A  sunbeam  through  my  window  broke 
And  touched  my  eyes,  and  I  awoke. 

— Charles  Mumford. 


156 


ROBERT  TREAT 

THEY'VE  Robert  Treat  dramatics 
And  a  Robert  Treat  cigar, 
Our  beer — the  pride  'o  Newark's  sons 

Is  "Treated"  near  and  far; 
They  tack  his  name  to  fads  and  frills, 

To  hats  and  brands  of  shoes, 
And  Robert  Treat's  the  slogan 

On  some  groceries  we  use. 
We've  got  a  Robert  Treat  hotel, 

Our  pride  to-day,  you  bet, 
His  name's  upon  a  Newark  school 

And  soon  a  cigarette. 
And  e'en  the  highest  hope  of  every 

Newarker  we  meet, 
Is  to  name  his  "nineteen  sixteen  boy" 

A  Junior  Robert  Treat. 
Thus,  should  the  shade  of  dear  old  Bob 

Appear  to  us  to-day, 
What  shock  must  greet  his  eyes  to  see 

His  name  in  such  display. 
The  Hallelujah  Chorus 

May  not  chant  his  name  aloud, 
But  still  we'll  bet  Bob  Treat  is  famed 

Up  where  the  angels  crowd. 

— Allen  F.  Brewer. 

157 


BROAD  STREET 
(1666-1916) 

WHEN  lilacs  bloom  in  urban  bowers, 
Sweet  harbingers  of  summer  hours, 
And  cherry-blossoms  lightly  fall 
Like  snowflakes  by  the  garden  wall; 
When  robins  hide  in  apple-trees, 
And  pansies  nod  in  every  breeze, 
And  like  cathedrals,  tall  and  grand, 
Our  hoary  elms  majestic  stand, 
While  underneath  the  current  flows 
Of  human  joys  and  human  woes, 
Then  seems  the  street  a  mighty  stream 
On  which  we  mortals  drift  and  dream. 
Here  toiled  the  Fathers  in  the  fields, 
Where  earth  her  truest  treasure  yields, 
And  here  the  Sons,  with  reverent  eyes, 
Behold  a  royal  harvest  rise. 
Yet  ever,  'neath  the  starry  cope, 
The  radiant  barges  Love  and  Hope 
Move  side  by  side  with  Grief  and  Care, 
And  all  the  flotsam  of  Despair. 
In  vain  the  pilots  seek  to  force 

158 


BROAD  STREET 

Their  way  against  the  current's  course, 

And  where  they're  bound,  or  whence  they  came, 

Nor  sage,  nor  bard  can  ever  name. 

And  none  of  all  the  fleets  that  glide 

Along  the  weird  and  heaving  tide 

Turn  back  their  prows  or  ever  teach 

What  Port  the  later  Pilgrims  reach. 

— Augustus  Waiters. 


159 


APPENDICES 


APPENDIX  I 

CONDITIONS  OF  THE  NEWARK  POETRY 
COMPETITION 

The  Committee  of  One  Hundred  offers  a  series  of 
prizes,  aggregating  $1,000,  for  poems  on  Newark  and 
its  25Oth  Anniversary  and  plans  to  publish  the  best  of 
the  poems  submitted  in  a  volume  to  be  entitled,  "New 
ark's  Anniversary  Poems." 

In  this  competition  all  the  poets  of  our  country  are 
invited  to  participate. 

The  prize  poem  on  Newark  and  its  Anniversary  may 
touch  on  any  or  all  of  such  topics  as,  the  City's  historic 
aspects,  its  rapid  industrial  development,  its  civic  and 
educational  features,  the  chief  purpose  of  its  cele 
bration, — which  is,  to  develop  a  wider  and  deeper 
public  spirit. 

Newark  is  not  all  industries,  smoke,  rush  and  din. 
It  is  a  great  centre  of  production  and  in  its  special 
field  of  work  is  alert  and  progressive.  But  it  has  also 
beautiful  homes,  fine  parks,  admirable  schools,  a  useful 
library.  Its  thousands  of  shade  trees  are  the  envy  of 
many  cities.  The  cleanliness  of  its  highways  surprises 
even  the  Newarker  himself.  It  has  a  good  govern- 


APPENDICES 

ment,  churches  in  plenty  and  many  worthy  clubs  and 
societies.  Art  and  science,  even,  are  not  altogether 
neglected  here.  Newark  is  an  old  town,  solid  and 
conservative  and  tenacious  of  certain  old-time  peculiari 
ties.  Newark,  with  40x3,000  people,  the  largest  city 
in  New  Jersey,  though  known  to  all  the  world  as  a 
producer  of  honest  goods,  is  still  to  that  same  world 
quite  unknown  as  to  its  own  special  quality  among 
American  cities.  Will  the  poet,  the  man  of  insight 
and  of  prophecy,  kindly  come  forth  and  discover  her 
to  the  world  and  to  herself? 

There  are  many  interesting  phases  in  Newark's  life 
and  in  its  celebration.  All  are  within  the  field  of  the 
inspiration  of  the  poet  we  are  seeking.  To  make  our 
volume  interesting,  its  verses  should  touch  on  a  wide 
range  of  subjects.  The  wits  as  well  as  the  philosophers 
have  their  opportunity  here.  We  think  our  city  al 
ready  quite  worthy!  Now  we  seek  a  poet  who  shall 
make  us  famous!  If  with  him  comes  one  who  makes 
us  ludicrous — and  he  does  it  well — to  him  also  we  can 
award  a  prize! 

CONDITIONS  OF  POEM  COMPETITION 
The  poets  of  our  country  are  invited  to  submit  poems 
on  Newark  in  competition  for  thirteen  prizes  in  gold. 
First  Prize — two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
Second    Prize — one  hundred   and   fifty  dollars. 
Third  Prize — one  hundred  dollars. 
Ten  prizes  of  fifty  dollars  each. 

164. 


APPENDICES 

The  Historical  and  Literary  and  the  Publicity  Com 
mittees  of  the  Committee  of  One  Hundred  have  charge 
of  this  competition,  and  have  established  therefor  the 
following  rules: 

Poems  submitted  for  the  competition  must  not  con 
tain  more  than  one  thousand  words. 

They  must  be  typewritten  on  one  side  only  of  sheets 
of  paper  of  letter  size,  about  8  by  1 1  inches. 

They  must  reach  the  office  of  the  Committee  on  or 
before  June  I,  1916. 

They  must  be  enclosed  in  sealed  envelopes  bearing 
only  the  name  and  address  of  this  Committee. 

They  must  not  bear  the  names  of  their  respective 
authors. 

Each  must  bear  a  fictitious  name  or  a  distinctive 
mark. 

This  fictitious  name  or  distinctive  mark  must  be 
placed  also  on  the  outside  of  a  second  envelope. 

Within  this  second  envelope  must  be  a  sheet  of  paper 
bearing  the  author's  name  and  address,  and  this  second 
envelope  must  be  sealed  and  enclosed  with  the  poem, 
in  the  envelope,  addressed  to  the  Committee. 

A  competitor  may  submit  two  or  more  poems,  but 
only  one  prize  will  be  awarded  to  any  author. 

The  poems  will  be  judged  and  the  prizes  awarded 
by  a  committee  of  seven  named  by  this  Committee,  and 
the  envelopes  containing  the  names  of  the  authors  will 
not  be  opened  until  the  prizes  have  been  awarded. 

The  specific  subject,  the  meter  and  the  style  of  the 

165 


APPENDICES 

poems  are  left  entirely  to  the  judgment  of  their  authors. 
They  may  be  historical,  biographical,  philosophical  or 
topical  in  subject  matter;  they  may  be  serious,  humor 
ous  or  satiric  in  manner;  they  may  be  epic,  lyric,  or 
narrative  in  form.  On  all  these  matters  are  placed  no 
restrictions  whatever,  and  this  Committee  and  the 
Judges  are  agreed  that  the  prizes  should  be  awarded 
with  reference  primarily  to  sheer  poetic  quality.  Good 
poetry,  as  that  phrase  is  to-day  usually  understood  by 
persons  of  experience  in  such  matters,  is  what  is  sought 
by  this  Committee,  and  this  the  Judges  hope  to  discover 
among  the  contributions  submitted,  and  to  this,  in  so 
far  as  it  is  found,  the  prizes  will  be  awarded. 

The  Committee  shall  have  the  right  to  publish  from 
time  to  time  any  of  the  poems  submitted,  and  it  shall 
be  the  owner  of  the  poems  for  which  prizes  have  been 
awarded,  together  with  those  which  it  may  have  in 
cluded  in  its  volume  entitled  " Newark's  Anniversary 
Poems." 

The  following  have  accepted  the  Committees  invi 
tation  to  serve  as  judges  in  this  competition: 

From  Newark:  Hon.  Frederic  Adams,  Judge  of 
the  Circuit  Court,  State  of  New  Jersey;  Hon.  Thos.  L. 
Raymond,  Counsellor-at-Law,  and  Mayor  of  Newark; 
Miss  Margaret  Coult,  Head  of  English  Department, 
Barringer  High  School;  William  S.  Hunt,  Associate 
Editor,  Newark  Sunday  Call. 

At  large:  Prof.  John  C.  Van  Dyke,  Professor 
History  of  Art,  Rutgers  College;  Lecturer  Columbia, 
1 66 


APPENDICES 

Harvard,  Princeton;  Author;  Editor:  "College  Histo 
ries  of  Art";  "History  of  American  Art"; — New 
Brunswick,  New  Jersey. 

Thomas  L.  Masson,  (Tom  Masson),  Literary 
Editor  Life;  Author;  Editor  "Humorous  Masterpieces 
of  American  Literature." 

Theodosia  Garrison,  Author:  "The  Joy  of  Life 
and  other  Poems";  "Earth  Cry  and  other  Poems"; 
Contributor  to  Magazines. 

The  prize  poems,  with  a  selection  from  those  sub 
mitted  but  not  receiving  prizes,  will  probably  be 
published  about  May  I,  1917,  in  a  volume  to  be  called 
"Newark's  Anniversary  Poems." 

Address  all  communications  to  the  Editor  of  The 
Newarker,  Committee  of  One  Hundred,  Newark,  New 
Jersey. 


167 


APPENDIX  II 

SUGGESTIONS  TO  POETS,  IF  THEY  WISH 
TO  SING  OF  NEWARK 

Newark  is  not  well  known.  Many  thousand  travelers 
have  gained  quite  an  erroneous  view  of  its  character. 
They  pass  through  it  on  a  train  and  appraise  it  by 
the  view  they  get  from  a  car  window  as  they  pass. 

Newark  is  old,  for  an  American  city, — 250  years. 
This  is  not  to  its  credit,  for  Newark's  presence  on 
earth  has  not  hastened  or  retarded  the  flight  of  years! 
Its  age  is  not  the  cause  of  its  Celebration,  but  merely 
the  occasion  therefor. 

Newark  is  large,  about  400,000  inhabitants.  It  is 
not  celebrating  its  size,  though  its  increase  of  thirty  per 
cent  in  each  of  the  past  six  decades  suggests  that  it  has 
had,  in  that  period,  either  an  admirable  vigor  or  certain 
attractive  features,  or  both.  Still,  its  size  is  not  the 
cause  of  its  celebration  activities,  rather  the  opportunity 
therefor. 

Newark  began  life  as  the  last  project  of  theocracy  in 

America,  and  bears  the  marks  of  its  birth  to  this  day. 

But  it  does  not  celebrate  for  this  reason.     One  may,  on 

the  contrary,  almost  venture  the  thought  that  it  cele- 

168 


APPENDICES 

brates  now  its  approaching  day  of  freedom  from  the 
bonds  of  theocracy  and  of  fuller  enjoyment  of  the  best 
fruit  of  that  very  same  theocracy's  wise  teachings. 

Newark  is  very  industrious,  but  is  not  entirely  in 
dustrial. 

Newark  is  on  the  edge  of  vast  stretches  of  sea-touched 
marshes;  but  rests  for  the  most  part  on  certain  very 
admirable  hills — hills  which  the  hurrying  car-window 
student  neither  sees  nor  believes  to  exist. 

But  Newark  is  not  celebrating  her  industry,  or  her 
high-set  homes,  or  any  other  of  the  excellencies  to 
which  in  her  less  modest  moments  she  rather  reluctantly 
confesses. 

Newark  is  celebrating  in  the  hope  that  her  people 
may  thereby  be  led  to  take  note  of  themselves,  to  dis 
cover  that  they  form  a  live  and  active  thing,  a  Modern 
American  City;  that  this  live  creature,  their  city,  has 
its  own  potencies  and  powers,  and  that  it  can  therewith 
do  excellent  things  for  its  own  people,  and  that  it  ought 
to  do  them. 

In  a  word  Newark  celebrates,  not  because  it  is  so 
excellent  a  city,  but  in  the  hope  that  it  may  become 
much  more  excellent. 

Let  the  poets  come,  if  they  kindly  will,  and  prick 
the  tender  bubble  of  our  self-esteem,  and  also,  if  they 
kindly  will,  give  us  something  that  will  stir  us  so  to 
conduct  our  city  that  our  self-esteem  may  at  length 
come  to  be  only  a  proper  pride  in  civic  things  well  done. 


169 


APPENDICES 

The  above  is  from  the  Free  Public  Library  of  New 
ark,  which  will  gladly  furnish  to  all  inquirers  infor 
mation  about  Newark's  past,  present  and  future. 


170 


APPENDIX  III 

BIOGRAPHIES  OF  PRIZE  WINNERS 

CLEMENT  WOOD 

was  born  in  Tuscaloosa,  Alabama.  Educated  in  the 
Taylor  School  and  Birmingham  High  School;  A.B., 
University  of  Alabama,  1909;  LL.B.,  Yale  Law 
School,  1911.  After  two  years'  practice  of  law,  he 
came  to  New  York,  where  he  has  adopted  writing  as 
a  business,  with  teaching  as  a  side-line.  During  this 
time  he  has  conducted  columns  in  the  Call  and  the 
Evening  Mail  in  New  York,  and  has  published  poems, 
critical  essays,  and  stories  in  various  periodicals.  He 
has  also  lectured,  and  given  readings  from  his  own  and 
other  works.  His  first  volume  of  poetry,  "Glad  of 
Earth,"  was  published  by  Laurence  J.  Gomme  (N.  Y.) 
in  the  autumn  of  1916. 

ANNA  BLAKE  MEZQUIDA 

was  born  in  San  Francisco  and  was  educated  there. 
She  is  a  genuine  Mayflower  descendant  and  her  ances 
tors  on  both  sides  fought  in  the  American  Revolution. 
As  a  child  she  was  fond  of  composing  verses,  stories 
171 


APPENDICES 

and  little  plays  and  was  a  contributor  and  editor  of 
various  school  publications.  When  barely  sixteen  years 
of  age  her  first  poem  was  published,  winning  the  first 
prize  in  a  local  poetry  contest.  Other  minor  poetry 
prizes  followed.  Owing  to  ill-health  she  was  unable 
to  continue  in  literary  work  until  1915.  In  that  year 
her  poem,  "  The  Wondrous  Exposition,"  was  selected 
as  the  Exposition  Song  from  among  over  two  thousand 
contestants  in  a  competition  conducted  by  the  San  Fran 
cisco  Call  Post.  During  1915—16  the  following  poems 
by  this  author  were  published:  "My  Sweetheart,"  in 
Romance;  "Drums"  and  "The  Flower  on  the  Sill,"  in 
the  All  Story  Weekly;  "The  Two  Spirits,"  "The  Red 
Hell,"  "Christ  My  Guide,"  and  "A  Sonnet,"  in  the 
Pacific;  and  "The  Meaning  of  Love"  in  Munsey's 
Magazine.  An  article,  "The  Door  of  Yesterday,"  was 
published  in  the  Overland  Monthly  and  a  short  story, 
"The  Tiptoe  House,"  in  the  Sunset  Magazine.  She 
still  contributes  to  various  magazines. 

ALBERT  EDMUND  TROMBLY 

was  born  in  Chazy,  New  York,  1888.  Five  years  later 
his  family  removed  to  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  and 
there  Mr.  Trombly  was  educated.  He  was  graduated 
from  the  Worcester  State  Normal  School  in  1910.  In 
1913  he  took  his  A.B.  at  Harvard,  and  since  then  has 
been  instructor  of  Romance  languages  in  the  University 
of  Pennsylvania.  At  the  latter  university  he  received 
the  M.A.  degree  in  1915.  His  published  works  in- 
172 


APPENDICES 

elude:  "The  Springtime  of  Love"  (Sherman,  French 
&  Co.,  Boston,  1914)  ;  "Love's  Creed"  (Sherman, 
French  &  Co.,  1915);  "Songs  of  Daddyhood"  (Bad 
ger,  Boston,  1916),  and  poems  and  articles  contributed 
to  various  periodicals. 

KATHERINE  BAKER 

is  a  daughter  of  Ex-Representative  J.  Thompson  Baker, 
of  New  Jersey,  and  a  graduate  of  Goucher  College. 
Collier's,  Scribner's,  Independent,  Life  and  other  maga 
zines  have  accepted  her  stories  and  verses  and  the 
Atlantic  has  published  a  half-dozen  essays,  one  of  which, 
"Entertaining  the  Candidate,"  describing  an  incident 
of  Woodrow  Wilson's  first  Presidential  campaign,  the 
magazine  reprinted  this  summer  in  a  volume  called 
"Atlantic  Classics." 

SIMON  BARR 

was  born  in  London  in  1892  and  educated  in  private 
schools  and  East  Ham  Technical  College.  He  came 
to  the  United  States  in  1907.  He  studied  chemical 
engineering  at  Columbia  University  School  of  Mines. 
He  was  editor  of  the  Columbia  Monthly  1909-13, 
editor-in-chief  1913,  and  class  poet  1913.  The  same 
year  he  joined  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Municipal 
Journal,  became  circulation  manager  and  later  assistant 
editor,  which  post  he  now  holds.  He  has  contributed 
to  numerous  newspapers  and  magazines.  He  has  been 
associated  with  a  number  of  social  researches,  includ- 

173 


APPENDICES 

ing  the  subjects  of  vocational  guidance  and  feeble 
mindedness.  In  1915-16  he  made  the  third  war  sur 
vey  for  the  Newark  Evening  News. 

BERTON  BRALEY 

was  born  in  Madison,  Wisconsin,  in  1882.  He  sold 
his  first  verse  when  about ,  seventeen  years  old.  He 
won  a  good  many  prizes  and  was  editor  of  the  Uni 
versity  of  Wisconsin  Sphinx  and  the  Literary  Maga 
zine.  In  1915  he  went  to  Butte,  Montana,  and  be 
came  a  cub  reporter  on  the  Inter-Mountain,  now  the 
Evening  Post.  He  afterwards  joined  the  editorial  staff 
of  the  Evening  News  of  Butte,  remaining  there  for 
about  three  years.  Came  to  New  York  in  1909  and 
free  lanced  until  he  became  associate  editor  of  Puck. 
In  the  vacations  during  his  college  career  he  has  done 
numerous  and  sundry  jobs  such  as  selling  books,  clerk 
ing,  passing  coal  on  the  Great  Lakes,  digging  ditches, 
acting  as  attendant  at  an  insane  asylum,  guard  in  a 
prison,  farm  hand,  ditch  digger,  miner,  and  various 
other  "situations  round  the  world."  These  positions 
gave  him  an  insight  into  working  conditions  and  work 
ing  men's  viewpoints  that  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with 
the  success  he  has  achieved  in  singing  of  men  who  do 
the  world's  rough  jobs.  His  published  wrorks  are: 
"Sonnets  of  a  Suffragette"  (F.  G.  Browne,  Chicago), 
"Songs  of  the  Workaday  World"  (Geo.  H.  Doran), 
and  "Things  as  They  Are"  (Geo.  H.  Doran), 


174 


APPENDICES 

SAVERS  COE 

was  born  in  Newark,  1891.  He  graduated  from  New 
ark  Academy  in  1908  and  from  Princeton  in  1912.  In 
that  year  he  was  class  poet.  He  is  assistant  editor  of 
the  Mentor.  Several  short  poems  have  appeared  in 
various  magazines  and  newspapers.  He  has  lived  in 
Newark  all  his  life.  Some  of  his  ancestors  were  among 
Newark's  early  settlers.  His  namesake,  old  Sayers  Coe, 
was  one  of  the  leading  citizens  of  the  city,  following  the 
Revolution.  Another  ancestor  fought  in  the  Revolu 
tion. 

HANIEL  LONG 

was  born  in  Rangoon,  Burmah,  in  1888.  He  grad 
uated  from  Phillips  Exeter  Academy  in  1906  and  from 
Harvard  in  1910.  For  a  year  he  was  reporter  on  the 
New  York  Globe  and  has  since  taught  at  the  Carnegie 
Institute  of  Technology,  Pittsburgh,  where  he  is  now 
assistant  professor  in  English  in  the  School  of  Applied 
Design. 

MINNIE  REYNOLDS 

Her  first  published  writing  was  in  the  form  of  min 
ing  news  in  the  Denver  papers  from  a  tiny,  lost,  forgot 
ten,  mining  hamlet,  named  Pitkin,  hidden  two  miles 
above  the  sea  level  in  the  mountains  of  Colorado.  She 
was  teaching  school  there  in  a  log-cabin  schoolhouse. 
On  Saturdays  she  would  get  her  horse  and  ride  off 
among  the  hills  to  the  various  mines  and  prospects 
175 


APPENDICES 

round  about.  The  miners  would  give  her  quail  and 
venison  dinners  and  fill  her  full  of  wonderful  stories 
about  their  prospects,  which  were  duly  published  and 
paid  for  by  Denver  papers.  Later  she  worked  on  small 
daily  papers  in  Aspen,  Colorado,  then  for  eight  years 
on  the  Rocky  Mountain  News  of  Denver,  the  oldest 
and  largest  paper  in  Colorado.  After  she  came  east 
her  work,  poems,  short  fiction  and  special  articles,  ap 
peared  in  almost  every  newspaper  in  New  York:  Sun, 
Times,  Tribune,  Press,  Globe,  Post,  and  others.  Also 
in  Collier  s,  Independent,  World's  Work,  Delineator, 
Munsey's,  Forum,  Everybody's,  Ainslie's  and  other 
magazines.  Two  of  her  books  have  been  published, 
"The  Crayon  Clue,"  a  novel  (Mitchell  Kennerley, 
N.  Y.),  and  "How  Man  Conquered  Nature,"  a  study 
in  the  evolution  of  civilization  for  young  people  (Mac- 
millan).  Two  histories  by  her  are  to  be  published  by 
Macmillan  this  fall:  "The  Vanishing  Frontier"  and 
"The  Gold  Rush."  She  helped  to  get  the  vote  for 
women  in  Colorado  and  was  a  voter  there.  She  was 
executive  secretary,  New  Jersey  Women's  Political  Un 
ion  during  three  years'  suffrage  campaign  in  New  Jersey. 

ALICE  MEADE  ROUSE 

cannot  give  us  biographical  details  but  writes  the  fol 
lowing  to  the  editor:  "I  was  born  Alice  Meade  of 
Virginia  and  married  Shelley  Rouse,  a  Kentucky  law 
yer;  have  an  interesting  menage  and  a  peach  of  a  daugh 
ter,  Shelley — she,  but  the  adaptation  of  a  Mary  tern- 

176 


APPENDICES 

perament  to  a  Martha  job  according  to  the  dictates  of 
an  early  American  conscience  has  not  been  conducive 
to  the  production  of  volumes.  My  writing  has  been 
only  desultory  magazine  work.  I  suspect  the  shade  of 
a  valiant  Jerseyman,  one  Col.  Shepard  Kollack,  of  the 
Revolution,  one  of  the  New  Jersey  Cincinnati  and  a 
literary  man  himself,  must  have  persuaded  the  Newark 
judges  to  be  kind  to  my  verses." 

EDWARD  N.  TEALL 

was  born  in  Brooklyn  in  1880.  Graduated  from 
Bloomfield  High  School  to  Princeton  (class  of  1905). 
He  is  the  author  of  "Glories  of  Old  Nassau,"  a  verse 
history  of  the  College  of  New  Jersey,  "Vagron  Verses" 
(Badger).  Contributions  from  him  have  appeared  in 
Scribners,  St.  Nicholas  and  (as  Owen  Terry)  the  Sun. 
Since  1903  has  been  on  the  editorial  staff  of  a  New 
York  morning  newspaper. 

JAMES  H.  TUCKLEY 

a  native  of  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  is  the  son  of  the  late 
Henry  Tuckley,  author,  syndicate,  occupant  of  Meth 
odist  pastorate  in  Cincinnati,  Providence  and  Spring 
field,  Massachusetts,  and  at  his  death  Methodist  dis 
trict  superintendent  at  Binghamton,  New  York.  He 
is  a  graduate  of  the  public  school  of  Springfield,  Massa 
chusetts  and  of  Wesleyan  University.  While  at  col 
lege  he  was  a  class  poet,  associate  editor  of  the  Wes 
leyan  Literary  Monthly  and  of  the  college  annual, 

177 


APPENDICES 

winner  of  university  awards  in  Greek  archaeology  and 
English  essay ;  winner,  also,  of  the  Taylor  prize  for  the 
best  original  poetry,  the  last  previous  recipient  being 
Frederic  L.  Knowles,  whose  poems  are  represented  in 
Stedman's  American  Anthology.  He  was  correspond 
ent  of  the  Springfield  Republican  and  the  Hartford 
Times,  and  wrote  for  other  newspapers,  his  contribu 
tions  including,  besides  sporting  accounts  and  general 
news,  a  poem  and  a  political  editorial.  Mr.  Tuckley 
gave  up  journalism  for  teaching  and  has  been  grammar 
vice-principal,  supervising  principal,  high  school  prin 
cipal,  and  for  five  years  teacher  of  'English  in  Newark 
High  School.  He  is  a  member  of  the  Delta  Tau 
Delta  college  fraternity.  He  is  also  a  member  of  the 
Old  First  Church,  Newark. 

EZRA  POUND 

was  born  in  1885.  He  is  the  author  of  a  considerable 
number  of  volumes.  In  1909  "Personae"  was  pub 
lished,  followed  by  "Exultations"  (1909),  "Canzoni" 
(1911),  "Repostes"  (1912).  In  1913  these  books 
were  published  in  a  two-volume  edition.  An  Ameri 
can  edition  of  some  selections  was  published  under  the 
title  "Provenca"  (1910),  "Cathey"  (1915)  and  "Lus 
tra"  (1916)  completes  the  list  of  his  original  poetic 
works.  His  prose  works  consist  of  "The  Spirit  of  Ro 
mance"  (Dent,  1910),  "Gaudier  Brzeska"  (Lane, 
1916),  and  selections  from  the  papers  of  Ernest  Fenol- 
losa.  Certain  noble  plays  of  Japan  (1916)  (Cula 

178 


APPENDICES 

Press) .  "Noh,"  a  study  of  the  classical  stage  of  Japan, 
is  to  be  published  by  Macmillan  shortly.  In  1912  he 
published  his  translation  of  "The  Sonnets  and  Ballate 
of  Guido  Cavalcenta."  He  has  edited  two  anthologies, 
"Des  Imagistes"  (1913),  and  "The  Catholic  Anthol 
ogy"  (1915),  and  contributed  to  Blast,  the  Quarterly 
Review.,  the  Fortnightly  Review  and  Poetry. 


179 


APPENDIX  IV 

COMMITTEE  OF  ONE  HUNDRED 
CITY  OF  NEWARK,  NEW  JERSEY 

FRANKLIN  MURPHY 

CHAIRMAN 

D.  H.  MERRITT 

TREASURER 

MATTHIAS  STRATTON 

SECRETARY 

UZAL  H.  McCARTER 

CHAIRMAN   EXECUTIVE   COMMITTEE 

JAMES  SMITH,  JR. 

VICE-CHAIRMAN 

ALEXANDER  ARCHIBALD 

HONORARY  SECRETARY 

JAMES  R.  NUGENT 

COUNSEL 

HENRY  WELLINGTON  WACK 

EXECUTIVE  ADVISER 

His  HONOR  THOMAS  L.  RAYMOND 
MAYOR 

FORMER  MAYOR  JACOB  HAUSSLING 

HONORARY    MEMBER 

1 80 


APPENDICES 


Alexander  Archibald 

George  B.  Astley 

Charles  Bradley 

Gen.  R.  Heber  Breintnall 

Albert  H.  Biertuempfel 

Joseph  B.  Bloom 

Philip  C.  Bamberger 

Angelo  R.  Bianchi 

Edward  T.  Burke 

Stanislaus  Bulsiewicz 

James  F.  Connelly 

John  L.  Carroll 

Rt.  Rev.  Mgr.  Patrick  Cody 

William  H.  Camfield 

Joseph  A.  Carroll 

Frank  W.  Cann 

William  I.  Cooper 

Forrest  F.  Dryden 

Dr.  William  Dimond 

John  H.  Donnelly 

Richard  Denbigh 

Alfred  L.  De  Voe 

Patrick  J.  Duggan 

Henry  M.  Doremus 

Daniel  H.  Dunham 

Laban  W.  Dennis 

J.  Victor  D'Aloia 

Mrs.  Henry  H.  Dawson 

Frederick  L.  Eberhardt 

Charles  Eytel 

John  Erb 

Christian  W.  Feigenspan 

Rev.  Joseph  F.  Folsom 

Rabbi  Solomon  Foster 

John  R.  Flavell 

William  H.  F.  Fiedler 

Louis  A.  Fast 

Henry  A.  Guenther 

Albert  T.  Guenther 


John  F.  Glutting 
Edward  E.  Gnichtel 
George  J.  Gates 
Augustus  V.  Hamburg 
Herman  C.  Herold 
William  T.  Hunt 

C.  William  Heilmann 
Richard  A.  Hensler 
Henry  Hebeler 

Mrs.  Henry  A.  Haussling 

Miss  Frances  Hays 

Richard  C.  Jenkinson 

Leopold  Jay 

Mrs.  Fred  C.  Jacobson 

Nathaniel  King 

Gottfried  Krueger 

William  B.  Kinney 

Dr.  Joseph  Kussy 

J.  Wilmer  Kennedy 

William  O.  Kuebler 

Rt.  Rev.  Edwin  S.  Lines,  D.D. 

Charles  W.  Littlefield 

Carl  Lentz 

Franklin  Murphy 

Uzal  H.  McCarter 

D.  H.  Merritt 

Rev.  T.  Aird  Moffat 
William  J.  McConnell 
Anton  F.  Muller 
John  F.  Monahan 
John  H.  McLean 
John  Metzger 
James  R.  Nugent 
John  Nieder 
Peter  J.  O'Toole 
William  P.  O'Rourke 
John  L.  O'Toole 
Edward  J.  O'Brien 
Patrick  C.  O'Brien 

181 


APPENDICES 


Benedict  Prieth 
Louis  Pfeifer 
Michael  J.  Quigley 
Thomas  L.  Raymond 
John  F.  Reilly 
Dr.  Samuel  F.  Robertson 
George  F.  Reeve 
Fred  H.  Roever 
Morris  R.  Sherrerd 
Edward  Schickhaus 
James  Smith,  Jr. 


George  D.  Smith 
Julius  Sachs 
Ernest  C.  Strempel 
A.  A.  Sippell 
J.  George  Schwarzkopf 
Bernard  W.  Terlinde 
Charles  P.  Taylor 
Frank  J.  Urquhart 
Dr.  A.  G.  Vogt 
Christian  Wolters,  Jr. 


COMMITTEE  OF  THREE  HUNDRED 


Richard  C.  Adams 
David  T.  Abercrombie 
Frank  T.  Allen 
Henry  Allsopp 
Thos.  Allsopp 
Jos.  O.  Amberg 
Lathrop  Anderson 
A.  Archibald 
John  L.  Armitage 
Louis  V.  Aronson 
Charles  Ashmun 
Albert  H.  Atha 
Benj.  Atha 
Willis  B.  Atwater 
Chas.  C.  Bacon 
C.  W.  Bailey 
Cyrus  O.  Baker 
F.  A.  C.  Baker 
S.  T.  Baker 
William  Bal 
Clifton  B.  Baldwin 
R.  J.  Ball 
Louis  Bamberger 
Jas.  B.  Banister 
Chas.  H.  Barkhorn 


Hugh  C.  Barrett 
Julius  Barthman 
Frank  E.  Bergen 
Henry  Bergfels 
Otto  Bernz 
Norbert  Bertl 
J.  O.  Betelle 
Frederic  Bigelow 
J.  O.  Bigelow 
Nathan  Bilder 
W.  A.  Birdsall 
J.  H.  Birkett 
W.  A.  Bishop 
Wm.  Bittles 
Theo.  E.  Blanchard 
B.  H.  Blood 
Frank  J.  Bock 
H.  A.  Bonnell 
Phillip  J.  Bowers 
Fredk.  A.  Boyle 
Charles  Bradley 
Robt.  B.  Bradley 
Andrew  Brueckner 
John  Bruenig 
John  Buhl 


182 


APPENDICES 


Wm.  F.  Burleigh 
Jos.  M.  Byrne 
Jos.  M.  Byrne,  Jr 
I.  L.  Calvert 
John  F.  Capen 
William  Cardwell 
John  L.  Carroll 
W.  T.  Carter,  Jr. 
W.  T.  Carter 
John  F.  Cassidy 
Alfred  N.  Chandler 
Jos.  V.  Clark 
Jas.  A.  Coe 
Morrison  C.  Colyer 
A.  W.  Conklin 
J.  F.  Conroy 
Albert  B.  Cosey 
Jos.  M.  Cox 
W.  A.  Cox 
D.  M.  Crabb 
Fred  A.  Croselmire 
Gilbert  S.  Crogan 
Jas.  Crowell 
I.  Newton  Davies 
Waters  B.  Day 
Chas.  R.  De  Bevoise 
Jos.  W.  Deerin 
Wm.  S.  De  Mott 
Richard  Denbigh 
Alfred  L.  Dennis 
Harold  Dennis 
Laban  W.  Dennis 
Geo.  M.  Denny 
Chas.  A.  Dickson 
Wm.  Dimond 
Frank  S.  Dodd 
Paul  C.  Downing 
Edgar  B.  Drake 
Frank  G.  Du  Bois 


Edw.  D.  Duffield 
Fred  Eberhardt 
Rev.  E.  F.  Eggleston 
Fred  W.  Egner 
F.  Ehrenkranz 
A.  N.  Eisele 
John  C.  Eisele 
Leo  P.  Eisele 
John  H.  Ely 
Wilson  C.  Ely 
John  Erb 

Russell  M.  Everett 
Wm.  S.  Fairchild 
Dudley  Farrand 
Louis  A.  Fast 
Jos.  L.  Feibleman 
Chris.  Feigenspan 
E.  C.  Feigenspan 
Abe  Feist 

Ernest  J.  E.  Fiedler 
Fred  A.  Fiedler 
Wm.  C.  Fiedler 

E.  F.  Fielding 

C.  Louis  Fitzgerald 
Christian   Fleissner 
Alex.  R.  Fordyce 
Rabbi  Solomon  Foster 
Geo.  G.  Frelinghuysen 

F.  C.  Frentzel 
Henry  H.  Fry  ling 
Felix  Fuld 
Winton  C.  Garrison 
Frank  H.  Genung 
Scott  German 

Carl  August  Giese 
Edward  E.  Gnichtel 
R.  J.  Goerke 
August  Goertz 
Thos.  Goldingay 


APPENDICES 


David  Goldsmith 

N.  Goldsmith 

John  K.  Gore 

Edward  Gray 

Edward  W.  Gray 

Arthur  W.  Greason 

Horace  C.  Grice 

David  Grotta 

Arthur  J.  Gude 

A.  J.  Hahne 

Thos.  F  Halpin 

A.  V.  Hamburg 

Willard  I.  Hamilton 

John  R.  Hardin 

E.  H.  Harrison 

Richard  Hartshorne 

Harry  C.  Havell 

Edgar  J.  Haynes 

Henry  F.  Hays,  Jr. 

A.  O.  Headley,  Jr. 

Walter  C.  Heath 

Andrew  J.  Hedges 

Arthur  R.  Heller 

John  E.  Helm 

Morris  Herbst 

Chas.  F.  Herr 

Chas.  E.  Hetzel 

Harrison  S.  Higbie 

Jas.  S.  Higbie 

J.  H.  Hill 

Harry  C.  Hines 

P.  L.  Hoadley 

Chester  R.  Hoag 

Wm.  J.  Hodgkinson 

Clarence  Hodson 

Dr.  Chas.  W.  F.  Holbrook 

Chas.  Hood 

Louis  Hood 

John  Howe 


Julius  Huebner 
J.  Wm.  Huegel 
T.  Cecil  Hughes 
Wm.  S.  Hunt 
Paul  H.  Jaehnig 
Geo.  W.  Jagle 
Leopold  Jay 
Walter  T.  Johnson 
Willard  S.  Johnson 
Henry  P.  Jones 
Edmond  S.  Joy 
Harry  Kalisch 
Isidore  J.  Kaufherr 
Edw.  Q.  Keasbey 
John  F.  Kehoe 
Thos.  F.  Kennedy 
Fred  J.  Keer 
Rufus  Keisler,  Jr. 
Wm.  B.  Kinney 
Geo.  F.  King 
Henry  J.  King 
H.  R.  Kingsley 
J.  Frank  Kitchell 
Geo.  W.  Ketcham 
Littleton  Kirkpatrick 
Albert  S.  Koenig 
Edwin  G.  Koenig 
Dr.  Chas.  F.  Kraemer 
Philip  Krimke 
Wm.  C.  Krueger 
Edwin  F.  Kulp 
Meyer  Kussy 
Frank  Lagay 
Geo.  H.  Lambert 
Halsey  M.  Larter 
Cyrus  F.  Lawrence 
Fred'k  R.  Lehlbach 
Wm.  E.  Lehman 
Chas.  W.  Lent 


I84 


APPENDICES 


Siegfried  Leschziner 
Ernest  Levy 
Robert  Levy 
Franklin  L.  Lewi 
Louis  Lippman 
Benj.  P.  Lissner 
Leo  R.  Lissner 
J.  R.  W.  Littell 
Howard  G.  Lord 
L.  H.  Lord 
Milton  Lowy 
Dr.  Otto  Lowy 
E.  C.  Lum 
John  W.  Lushear 
Thos.  N.  McCarter 
L.  J.  McCracken 
J.  Charlton  McCurdy 
Graham  B.  McGregor 
Donald  M.  McGregor 
David  A.  Mclntyre 
Spencer  S.  Marsh 
Franklin  F.  Mayo 
Ludwig  F.  Mergott 
Eugene  Merz 
Fred'k  F.  Meyer 
Stephen  W.  Milligan 
W.  S.  Moler 
Ferd  R.  Moeller 
John  Monteith 
Frank  P.  Montgomery 
Geo.  W.  Munsick 
Nathan  Myers 
A.  C.  Navatier 
Arthur  J.  Neu 
J.  R.  Nugent 
Dennis  F.  O'Brien 
John  B.  Oelkers 
W.  W.  Ogden 
R.  A.  Osborne 


Dr.  Henry  Ost 
James  Owen 
Geo.  Paddock 
Chauncey  G.  Parker 
Cortlandt  Parker,  Jr. 
R.  Wayne  Parker 
Dr.  Fred'k  M.  Paul 
Albert  H.  Peal 
Arthur  Phillips 
Louis  Plaut 
L.  Simon  Plaut 
Moses  Plaut 
Stephen  H.  Plum 
H.  B.  R.  Potter 
N.  H.  Porter 
A.  Leslie  Price 
E.  A.  Putnam 
J.  J.  Radel 
Henry  Rawle 
M.  Reichman 
Jas.  E.  Reilly 
Jas.  M.  Reilly 
Isaac  F.  Roe 
H.  C.  Rommel 
Win.  P.  Rommell 
P.  Sanford  Ross 
Robert  L.  Ross 
Roland  T.  Ross 
O.  Fred'k  Rost 
Abraham  Rothschild 
A.  E.  Sandford 
Wm.  Scheerer 
Wm.  Scheffenhaus 
Ralph  B.  Schmidt 
Herman  C.  Schuetz 
Albert  Schurr 
S.  Semels 

Jas.  M.  Seymour,  Jr. 
J.  H.  Shackleton 


185 


APPENDICES 


Morris  R.  Sherrerd 
Jehiel  G.  Shipman 
Geo.  H.  Simonds 
Alfred  F.  Skinner 
James  Smith,  Jr. 
J.  Henry  Smith 
Morey  W.  Smith 
Wm.  A.  Smith 
Fred.  E.  Sommer 
Fred  N.  Sommer 
G.  F.  Sommer 
Wm.  M  Sommer 
Edward  M.  Stirling 
Frank  A.  Sterling 
Charles  Stopper 
Matthias  Stratton 
Ernest  C.  Strempel 
C.  Edgar  Sutphen 
Jean  R.  Tack 
Chas.  P.  Taylor 
Walter  G.  Thacher 
H.  C.  Thompson 
Wm.  G.  Trautwein 
Harry  linger 
Harrison  R.  Van  Duyne 


Edward  N.  Van  Vliet 
H.  M.  Van  Sant 
Dr.  F.  H.  Van  Winkle 
F.  C.  Van  Keuren 
Edw.  M.  Waldron 
C.  Herbert  Walker 
Edw.  T.  Ward 
Robertson  S.  Ward 
William  Weiner 
Levi  Weingarten 
O.  L.  Weingarten 
J.  Fred'k  Wherry 
Chas.  L.  Whitefield 
B.  S.  Whitehead 
Borden  D.  Whiting 
E.  Alvah  Wilkinson 
W.  A.  Williamson 
Edw.  W.  Wollmuth 
W.  B.  Wood 
A.  M.  Woodruff 
Joseph  Wotiz 
Edwin  C.  Young 
Roger  Young 
Stuart  A.  Young 
Leonard  B.  Zusi 


THE  COMMITTEE  OF  FIFTY 


Mrs.  George  Barker 

Chairman 
Mrs.  Galen  J.  Perrett 

Vice-chairman 
Miss  J.  Isabelle  Sims 

Secretary 
Mrs.  Henry  Young,  jr. 

Treasurer 
Mrs.  John  L.  Contrell 

Chairman    Hospitality 
Committee 


Mrs.  Frederick  S.  Crum 
Chairman  Schools  Com 
mittee 

Mrs.  Solomon  Foster 
Chairman   Philanthropy 

Committee 

Mrs.  John  W.  Howell 
Chairman  Religion  Com 
mittee 


1 86 


APPENDICES 


Miss  Alice  Kirkpatrick 

Chairman  Pageant  Com 
mittee 
Mrs.  Franklin  Murphy,  jr. 

Chairman  Entertainment 

Committee 
Mrs.  L.  H.  Robbins 

Chairman  Publicity  Com 
mittee 
Mrs.  Frank  H.  Sommer 

Chairman  Women's  Clubs 

Committee 

Mrs.  Henry  G.  Atha 
Mrs.  Louis  V.  Aronson 
Mrs.  Joseph  M.  Byrne 
Mrs.  Fredk.  C.  Breidenbach 
Mrs.  Jos.  B.  Bloom 
Mrs.  John  L.  Carroll 
Mrs.  A.  N.  Dalrymple 
Mrs.  Henry  Darcy 
Mrs.  R.  Dieffenbach 
Mrs.  Spaulding  Frazer 
Mrs.  Chr.  Feigenspan 
Mrs.  H.  R.  Garis 


Mrs.  R.  Arthur  Heller 
Mrs.  Charles  F.  Herr 
Mrs.  R.  C.  Jenkinson 
Mrs.  Nathan  Kussy 
Mrs.  William  B.  Kinney 
Mrs.  Jennie  B.  Kingsland 
Mrs.  Albert  Lynch 
Mrs.  Robert  M.  Laird 
Miss  Margaret  McVety 
Mrs.  E.  Erie  Moody 
Mrs.  Fredk  H.  Mooney 
Mrs.  Uzal  H.  McCarter 
Mrs.  William  P.  Martin 
Mrs.  James  R.  Nugent 
Mrs.  Benedict  Prieth 
Mrs.  Chauncey  G.  Parker 
Mrs.  Charles  J.  Praizner 
Mrs.  A.  Rothschild 
Mrs.  Edward  S.  Rankin 
Mrs.  E.  J.  Stevens 
Dr.  Sara  D.  Smalley 
Mrs.  Francis  J.  Swayze 
Mrs.  T.  Mancusi  Ungaro 
Mrs.  A.  Van  Blarcom 


187 


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